Fifteen Year Old Forger
by sherlockdrinkstea
Summary: Neal Caffrey is on the run after his Raphael raid went sour. And for a fifteen year old art thief, where better to hide than in a high school? Neal enrols in school and with Peter and the feds after him, things are bound to get interesting! Neal Peter father son ship, Neal wump, Neal cute... give it a try! :)
1. Chapter 1

He stood at the front of the class, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his blue blazer. Sunlight rained down from the dusty windows above, staining his hair with gold; his hands danced in and out of the rays whilst he spoke.

Nick Halden was explaining to his maths teacher why he had been on his phone in the middle of the lesson.

"Give me the phone, Nick."

"Sorry, sir. What phone?" He treated the teacher to one of his brilliant, innocent smiles. _Act confident._ Lessons from long ago whirled through his thoughts. _Don't look down, it makes people suspicious._

"The one in your right hand. The one you were texting on a minute ago." Mr Harris, maths teacher extraordinaire and wannabe detective, wasn't going to be charmed that easily. Nick deftly slipped the phone into the pocket of his blazer, distracting the keen eyes of the teacher by swirling the fingers of his other hand idly. The ploy worked. Harris didn't notice the move.

"Sir, I wasn't using my phone." Nick looked up through thick eyelashes, the very picture of sincerity. Harris raised a single eyebrow. The disbelief was clear on his face.

"Empty your pockets." Nick swore mentally. He needed that phone. And he needed time after school to plot and scheme with his mate Mozzie. Detention and a confiscated mobile would mess up his plans for sure. He wasn't going to let that happen. Nick ran his hands through his shock of coffee coloured hair, and whilst the teacher was distracted by the movement he turned slightly and eased the phone up from his pocket and into the cradle of his fingers. Then he smiled reassuringly and walked towards the maths teacher with a purposeful stride. He planted himself in front of Mr Harris, (leaning close and dropping the phone into the teacher's pocket whilst he did so) and turned his own pockets inside out. His deft fingers performed the motion with a fluid grace.

"See sir. Nothing here." Harris stared at him, still not totally convinced. He bent down to see if Nick had managed to drop the phone under a table. Nick took the opportunity to pickpocket his phone back from the maths teacher, using the two fingered grab Mozzie had taught him. Mr Harris didn't feel a thing. Nick slipped the slim Blackberry into the inside lining of his blazer and grinned up cheekily at the teacher.

"Sir, are we done here?" He asked. His tone was the smooth and sparkling, the voice he used when he was running cons or talking his way through a security barrier. This was a voice that dripped power and radiated a sense of trust - though if one listened carefully enough, they could pick out a certain element of mischief. Mr Harris stared at Nick one last time. Then the suspicion melted off his face and he gestured for the teenager to return to his seat.

"Get back to work, Nick. What exercise are you up to?"

"221B, sir." Mr Harris blinked. Exercise 221B was deemed A* level and he had never pegged Nick as much of a mathematical kinda kid. The boy was an extremely talented artist, and although he didn't struggle with numbers, maths was hardly coded into his DNA.

"Nobody likes a liar, Nick." Mr Harris warned softly. Nick laughed and picked up his pen. Numbers, sweet, simple numbers, organised into algebraic equations, stared up at him. He started to work his way through exercise 221B, the perfect, intelligent, blue eyed student. But internally, he was cringing. _Nobody likes a liar, Nick._ He hated lying too. Hated having to hide who he was and feed his friends and classmates false information. But when you're a wanted criminal hunted by the FBI, personal opinions don't carry much weight. He lied all the time to protect himself, and it was beginning to become a part of who he was. His real name wasn't even Nick.

"_Neal Caffrey_." Peter Burke paced his office whilst Diana brought him coffee and Jones brought him files. The words were bitter on his tongue. They tasted of defeat. The kid was fifteen years old, but he had robbed the Natural History Museum in broad daylight and had run off with a _dinosaur_ of all things. He had stolen priceless works of art by Picasso, Da Vinci, Degas and Raphael. Peter also had reason to believe that the kid had forged perfect copies of the paintings and distributed them worldwide. He was a bloody good artist – he had proved that time and time and time again. He forged passports and forged bonds, hacked safes and used ingenious software to barrel through all kinds of firewall. The kid had massive potential. Too bad it was the potential to succeed in the world of white collar _crime._ Peter sighed and ran his hands through his hair. _He had to get the kid._ But the "kid" had other plans. He had disappeared off the face of the earth and had been totally underground for two months. Not even a whisper from him or any of his associates. The kid was a major embarrassment for the White Collar Division, and at this rate, Neal Caffrey was going to cost Peter his job. Or, at the very least, his peace of mind.

Peter Burke, the "archaeologist" sat down at his desk and set to work sifting through data. He would find Neal Caffrey. And he would lock him up. Regardless of his age or his silver tongue or his irresistible charm. He wouldn't rest until the kid was put away for good.


	2. Chapter 2

Neal yawned cavernously as he balanced his pen behind one ear. The completed maths exercise lay rumpled on his desk before him, already marked and forgotten about. The exercise had been surprisingly easy. Neal Caffrey surveyed the classroom. The other students in his maths set were giggling and chatting amongst themselves, boys joking around, girls holding whispered conversations of seemingly _vital_ importance. They were all wearing the same blue blazer and stripy tie that was the uniform at Merrinote High School. Everybody hated it. Everybody except Neal. The uniform gave him a sense of belonging, it helped him blend in, and, more importantly, _he liked wearing ties_.

He had come to Merrinote after pulling the biggest heist of his criminal career, stealing a Raphael and replacing it with one of his forgeries. But the job had gone horribly wrong. His partner, Keller, had screwed things up and killed a man, which had instantly alerted the police to the fact that the Raphael had been stolen. If Keller hadn't been such a bloodthirsty psychopath, Neal knew that the theft of the painting would have gone unnoticed. He rolled his eyes at the memory. Trust an incompetent adult like Keller to blow a million dollar operation to smithereens. As a result of his dumbass move, every police department in the state had suddenly gotten _very_ interested in the missing painting, especially Peter Burke and his gang of angsty agents. With the feds hounding him and NYPD making life rather uncomfortable, Neal had known that he had to go underground. He had always been a firm believer that the best place to hide was in plain sight, so he had devised a plan. Dipping into his funds and tracking down all the necessary documentation for his new alias Nick Halden, he had enrolled himself in a private, mixed high school 3 blocks away from the White Collar Division in the New York FBI building.

"Hey Nick. Nice save with the phone there." A girl's sugary voice interrupted his thoughts. Neal blinked and looked up at her, mentally slipping back into the role of Nick Halden, millionaire schoolboy.

"Yeah. Thought I was going to be busted for sure." He flashed her one of his electric smiles, eyes flickering across her face that was framed by soft, red hair. _Sara Ellis._ The name popped into his head, supplied by his ever helpful, rhyming memory bank. _Sara Ellis eats relish_. Neal always made a point to remember names: you never knew quite when they could come in handy. Sara Ellis laughed prettily.

"I don't think that Mr Harris trusts you anymore." She simpered.

"Nah. Well, I don't trust him either. The signature on his driver's licence is obviously forged." Neal stopped himself abruptly. The words had just spilled out – his true, observant personality shining through, seeping out past the lie. It happened when he talked to pretty girls. Sara, however, didn't seem to notice the slip.

She was pretty in a spotty-teenager kind of way. Quick witted, too – Neal had been fairly confident that nobody had seen him slip his phone into the teacher's pocket earlier. Yet her piercing grey eyes had seen right through his ruse. Going out with Sara would be interesting… But she wasn't his type. And besides, he already had eyes for a girl in the year. Kate Moreau. A goddess come to life.

"So…Nick." Sara shot a furtive glance at Mr Harris, then sidled over to sit next to Neal. The space next to him was empty, his maths partner having popped over to talk to someone on the opposite side of the room. "Did you watch Doctor Who last night?" She asked, slightly breathless from the manoeuvre. Neal smiled. Of course he had. He did everything he could to act like a normal teenager and fit in with the other students. Watching TV achieved this aim: it enabled him to spark up a conversation with his classmates wherever and whenever he wanted. Neal had a huge repertoire of conversation topics, but none of them interested teenagers. Not unless they were _really_ into the history behind Picasso's brush stroke technique. Or they felt like discussing the benefits of using a skeleton key over hacking a CCTV feed. Neal's bright blue eyes caught Sara's grey ones.

"Yeah, I saw it." He murmured, soft and sweet. "Great show."

"I liked the part where the two aliens kissed." Sara announced. Neal crumpled his eyebrows at her.

"Seriously? You liked the _kissing alien_ scene?" He laughed, the deep, adorable chuckle of a confident teenager. "The aliens were all like, kiss my… eye stalk… thing." Neal continued, leaning in close to Sara, his head swinging from side to side in a crazy impression of the kissing eye stalk aliens. Sara giggled. Her lips were suddenly very close to his. And very inviting…

"Excuse me, but why are you in my seat? And why are you like, nearly bumping heads with _my _maths partner?"

Sara and Neal jerked away. Standing over them, glowering up a storm, was Kate Moreau.

"Kate…" Neal started. It sounded weak even to him. "This is Sara Relish – I mean, uh, Ellis."

* * *

Peter Burke sat at his dining room table. His wife, Elizabeth, sat next to him.

"Hon, you need to stop worrying about this case. I know you'll catch him. You always do." Her words were like a soft blanket being draped across his tense shoulders, but Peter refused to relax.

"El, you don't understand. This kid isn't like the other criminals. He's smart. And he's damn good at what he does." Elizabeth listened with a loving, though somewhat tired expression. She had heard this all before. But this time, something was different. One word stood out to her, niggled at her thoughts.

"Wait, hon, did you say 'kid'?"

"Yup. Neal Caffrey is some sort of young… criminal… prodigy or something. God, I don't know. All I know is that the Caffrey case is giving me a massive headache. My team at the office has only managed to find one thing this whole week and it wasn't the kid. It was a bottle of aspirin." Peter downed his espresso. Elizabeth bent down to ruffle Satmo's already ruffled golden ruff. She reached across to give her husband a sympathetic squeeze, then resumed her ponderings.

"Define 'kid'." She mused. "How old is Neal? 20? 25?"

Peter nearly choked on his coffee. "What? No! Neal Caffrey is 15 years old!" Elizabeth sat in amazed silence.

"Wow."  
"Got that right, hon."

The Burke's sat shrouded in a companionable quiet for ten or so minutes. They knew each other well enough to not intrude on the silence until the time was perfectly right. Quiet is like fruit; it needs to ripen before it can be picked and crushed. Elizabeth cleared her throat.

"You know, I've always wanted to have a teenage son." Peter glanced up at El in surprise.

"Surely you don't want _Neal_?" He asked, aghast. Elizabeth laughed her tinkling laugh, the laugh that Peter fell in love with.

"No, hon, of course not! Just, talking about this… _fifteen year old forger_ got me thinking. I've being thinking about this a lot recently. There's so much evil in the world, hon. You spend your days at the FBI fighting it. So why don't we end a young person's personal suffering and foster? We've always wanted a child. We've never been big fans of babies. Why don't we foster a teenager?"

Peter smiled softly to himself. The thing about him and his El, the reason they got on so well together and had been happily married for ten years, was that they often shared the same views. Would fostering a teenager be such a bad idea? He would have to put some thought into it, of course, they both would, but it wasn't such a bad thing to consider.

Peter and Elizabeth kissed under the blush of the dimmed kitchen lights.

* * *

**Hey guys, thanks so much for all the reviews and follows, really appreciate it! Reviews especially make me feel so special and happy hahaha :) If you have a mo, please do a review! **

**I'm sorry that it took me a while to update this – I was away all weekend doing my Duke of Edinburgh award. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this and I'll post some more this week!**


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, Peter sat in his office, sipping coffee and reading a report that had been unceremoniously dumped on his desk. _The details behind Vincent Adler's Billion Dollar Ponzi Scheme_, the title blared. The piece was like a slap in the face, a hideous reminder of one of the Bureau's biggest failures. Peter sighed and slid the report away. He didn't want to revisit all that crap with Adler. He allowed his gaze to slip out the window and dance along the New York Skyline instead. Almost against his will, his thoughts slipped back to Neal Caffrey. Where the hell _was_ the little guy? His case was stale as last week's cold pizza, but it still tugged incessantly at Peter's thoughts. God, he needed to get a life. Obsessing over a criminal's whereabouts could hardly be conceived as healthy, but Peter knew that he wouldn't be able to rest until he tracked down the elusive teen. He leaned back in his chair and started thinking. If he was a fifteen year old forger and art thief, where would he go? Stay with friends? Track down some old family ties? Go to school? Peter almost laughed at the last one. The thought was_ completely_ absurd.

* * *

Neal jogged down the street, his trainers bouncing on and off against the pavement with a steady throb of life. He loved running. The gentle rhythm of swinging arms, the great gulps of air – everything about the solitary sport seemed to relax him. When he was running he could forget about the stress and the trials of life. He could restart his brain, calm down his overactive mind and experience small bursts of relief when his every step brought him farther away from the FBI headquarters right next to his school. He breathed deeply, loving the kiss of rain against his sweaty face. He certainly needed the distraction of running right now. His head was still reeling from the sheer and utter _awkwardness_ of the maths lesson with Sara and Kate yesterday. Christ, had it been embarrassing. Neal had been caught in the middle of some sort of cat fight, with both girls squabbling over him and demanding his undivided attention. Sara had claimed that _she_ knew Neal the best because they were in the same biology class. Kate had insisted that Neal liked _her_ more because she had shown him around on his first day of school. Whatever one said, the other would immediately dispute – but there were two things that the girls agreed on. One: Neal's shirt was definitely made from "boyfriend material", and two: Sara hated Kate and Kate really, really hated Sara.

The only sounds were the roar of traffic and the soft tread of his running shoes. Neal shoved the memory of Sara and Kate to the back of his mind as he rounded a corner and kept on jogging. He didn't want to think about it. Truth was, he was touched that they cared so much about him. Yes, they didn't know his real name, and granted, they didn't know the first thing about his criminal past, but they still… cared for him. And he didn't want to have to choose between them. Sara was funny and pretty and sharp as shattered glass, but Kate was artistic. She also had a rebel streak a mile wide and her blunt, straight-to-the-point personality was hard to resist.

Neal knew that his life was complex enough without throwing a girlfriend into the mix. And he also knew that it wasn't like he could even _have _a girlfriend anyway. When you're on the run, the last thing you want to do is form personal ties with people, and building a relationship was out of the question. You never knew when you would have to uproot yourself and leave without saying goodbye. Neal sighed with a touch of melodramatically. _He needed to talk to Mozzie_. Moz was his one true friend, the only one who knew his secret and who could advise him in the world of romance. For someone who had never been in a relationship, Mozzie was surprisingly knowledgeable about those sorts of things. His photographic memory gave him an edge in life and he was capable of providing answers to most of Neal's problems. Neal couldn't say that he _trusted _his small friend, but that didn't change the fact that they were mates.

Neal kept up the jogging, feeling the pain of laboured breathing in his chest now. His muscles ached and his head felt all hot, but he knew that he was nearly at the end. The warehouse that he and Mozzie had made into a base was just down the road. Neal forced himself into a sprint finish, but as he pounded down the street, a police car rounded the corner ahead and started driving towards him. Nobody runs on the streets of New York City, so Neal immediately slowed to a brisk walk. But it was too late. The police officers in the car had seen his sudden change in speed and he knew that they would be looking at him curiously as they drove by. Neal had discovered that he could survive if a cop glanced at him in the street. But with his description (plucked from a grainy CCTV camera two years back) splattered all over police stations worldwide, Neal _also_ knew that if he was scrutinized by an officer he would be recognised. And if he was recognised, he would be arrested. The police car glided closer. It would drive right past him in a matter of seconds. The officers would study his face. They would think for a moment, try and place it. Then they would turn the sirens on. Neal thought fast. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, but maybe… The police car was right in front of him. Neal could see the driver and the cop in the front seat staring out towards him. For the briefest of moments, Neal made eye contact with the policemen. Then Neal snapped back his head in a ridiculously over the top, fake sneeze. His hands rose up to catch the explosion of air, covering his face just as the car cruised by. He had timed it perfectly. The officers hadn't seen his insinuating features, and when they drove on past him they didn't stop or look back. Neal breathed out in relief. Then he checked the coast was clear before flexing his muscles and starting to jog again. Mozzie was waiting.

_Thud._ Neal hit the corrugated iron door of the warehouse and leant against it, panting after the 10k run. Through the door he could hear Mozzie's startled squeak. There was a beat of silence, then Mozzie called,

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Neal. Moz, let me in."

"What's the password?"

"Seriously, Mozzie?" Silence. Then-

"No password, no entry. How do I know you're not a fed?" Neal rolled his eyes.

"I'm not a fed, Moz."

"I don't know that."  
"Jesus Christ…"

"I'm waiting." Neal sighed, then rested his head against the cool metal door and muttered,

"_Bubble gum ice cream. _Happy now?" The door swung open on oiled hinges, revealing a short, bespectacled teenager standing with his arms akimbo. Mozzie.

"Welcome to my lair." Mozzie announced. Neal arched his eyebrows at his friend and entered the warehouse.

* * *

Diana sprinted up the steps and burst into Peter's office without knocking. Peter jumped, nearly falling off his chair, and shot his agent an irritated glance. Diana didn't seem to notice.

"Boss." Her voice was urgent. Peter immediately forgot his annoyance and looked up at her.

"Yeah?"

"We found a possible lead on Caffrey. It's a warehouse a few blocks from here – some homeless guy claims he saw a kid who matched the description hanging out there the other day." Peter frowned.

"That's quite a tenuous link, but it's the best we've got. Nice work Diana." She grinned at the praise.

"Any time, boss. What do you want us to do about it?"

"Monitor it. I want to know what that warehouse is and who visits it. And pull the CCTV. Let's see if we can snatch a visual of this Caffrey lookalike." Diana nodded. Peter could tell that she was mentally taking notes.

"I'll send a team down to the warehouse straight away." She said, before promptly turning on her heel and hurrying out the office. Peter smiled. Perhaps Neal Caffrey wasn't quite as clever as he thought.


	4. Chapter 4

Neal and Mozzie were sitting on the carpeted floor of their converted warehouse, cocooned in a comfortable silence. Neal was sketching something on a huge canvas balanced precariously on one knee. Mozzie was drinking tea from an ornate teapot that had once belonged to Queen Victoria.

"So how's the painting going?" Mozzie balanced his cup and saucer on a conveniently placed coffee table before scooting other to sit next to Neal. He peered down over his friend's shoulder at the half finished drawing on the canvas. "Wow, Neal. This is incredible!" He gasped, eyes agog, mouth agape. "Pull this forgery off and we'll get 6 million dollars by tomorrow!" Neal grinned at his short, compassionate friend. One of the best parts of forging paintings was that he got to spend time with Mozzie. Whilst he was copying a masterpiece, his best friend would keep him company in their freshly renovated warehouse, amusing him with quips and crazy conspiracy theories. Say what you would about Mozzie and his ambiguous moral compass; it wouldn't change the fact that he was clever. And fun to be around. And sometimes (just sometimes) he had his heart well and truly in the right place.

"I'm a tad worried about the eyes." Neal murmured in response to Mozzie's praise. "I don't think I pulled them off as well as I could have… Maybe I should start again." He ran a critical eye over his own drawing. A masterful forgery of the Mona Lisa, done from an enhanced, illegal photograph, stared back at him. He squinted deep into the sea of pencil marks, studying the intricate, swirling smudges and the first, early bursts of colour within the preliminary coat of paint. His skills were sharp – even he could see that, but he knew that he could do better. Knew that he could improve. Neal sighed and added a few new pencil strokes to his work. Maybe when he was older he would be good enough to fool those infuriating experts at DC Art Crimes. It was certainly something to aim for. Mozzie seemed to sense his frustration and padded over, cup of tea in tow. He placed a calming hand on his friend's shoulder, before promptly launching into a lewd anecdote that left Neal in stitches.

Ten minutes later. Neal and Mozzie were locked in an energetic debate about who was the best fence in the city, but Neal was distracted by both his "dodgy" painting, and by thoughts of Sara and Kate. Admittedly, it was mainly the latter. The more he focused on the problem, the more he realised that it was quite the little Shakespearean dilemma. Both girls liked him, and he liked them... both? But he wasn't a Time Lord. He didn't have two hearts. He couldn't like two people, could he?

" Moz…" Neal started. He didn't look up from his artwork, but he could tell that Mozzie was listening. "I need your help with something. You see-" But he got no further. His words were drowned out by the excited, though somewhat lethargic, voice of his friend.

"Neal, really, the best fence is definitely Rusty. I mean, I get where you're coming from, Alex does have potential, but is she really the hard core fence you can trust with your criminal integrity?" Neal's fluid drawing hand stopped long enough for him to shoot Mozzie a quizzical glance.

"What? No. Moz, this is something different. I wanted your opinion on my, uh, love life." Mozzie nearly choked on his tea.

"Your _love life_? You can't have a love life! What would the feds do if they found out that you had a… a - a _love life_? Use your girlfriend to track you down and throw you in prison, that's what!"

"Moz, don't you think that you might be overreacting just a _tiny_ bit?" Neal's tone was mordant, but Mozzie wasn't going to back down.

"Distrust and caution are the parents of security. So said Benjamin Franklin."

"Yeah. Well, I don't need security. We're criminals for God's sake - we go _against_ security!"  
"Neal… Speaking from experience, I would really advise that you don't get yourself involved in a relationship. Especially if you're on the run. Which, might I mention, you_ are_!" Neal opened his mouth to launch some biting counter argument, but something interrupted him. A noise. Sharp, brittle, out of place. He froze.

"Moz, what was that?" Mozzie crinkled his eyebrows in concentration.

"Car door slamming, I think." Neal glanced down at his friend.

"Wow. How did you _possibly_ know?" He shook his head with friendly sarcasm. "I meant, _why_ is a car door slamming when there is restricted vehicle access this side of the warehouse?" Next to him, Mozzie nodded thoughtfully.

"All vehicles forbidden, construction underway." He murmured, quoting the signpost that stood outside. "All trespassers will be prosecuted."

"Exactly. And so we return to our original question. Why is there a car outside?" Mozzie winced as another sound echoed through the walls of the warehouse.

"Make that two cars. Oooh, and _that's_ a helicopter. How exciting." Neal stood up. Maybe it was because he was constantly hunted by the FBI, but he was unusually jumpy for someone his age. He wasn't the type to sit idly when his safety was being threatened.

"Moz, you designed this building. You got a handy escape route up your sleeve?" Though the situation was high pressure, the two friends maintained their amiable tones. It took a lot to stress the pair of them out. Mozzie thought for a moment.

"Oooh, there is something that could help us." He drew out his phone and started tapping away on the screen. Neal gathered up his half-finished painting, expertly rolling it and slipping the canvas into a plastic tube.

"Here we go…" Mozzie smiled exuberantly as he showed his phone to Neal. "I installed dozens of pin sized cameras all over the outside of the building. The whole wall and front door is peppered with them, as well as the floor." Neal glanced at the screen. It was covered with flickering images from the camera's live feed. He stared at them for a second, then turned to Mozzie.

"Wait, you had cameras outside the building?"

"Of course."

"But then… Mozzie! Why did we go through all the crap with the password earlier?" Mozzie grinned impishly. Neal shook his head, trying not to smile. "Moz, you so need to get a life." He joked. Mozzie raised a falcate finger.

"Speaking of, why don't we focus on what the cameras are showing us now, eh?" Together, they gazed down at the live feed from outside. Neal gasped.

"Oh fu…fudge." The building was surrounded by at least a dozen police cars. A truck with the blaring words FBI idled on the tarmac outside and the visual from certain cameras showed a whirling helicopter lurking in the sky. Seven agents with bulletproof vests were making their way towards the warehouse door. Neal recognised the grainy face of his arch enemy: Peter Burke. _Crunch_. Mozzie jumped as one of the visuals streaming through his iPhone flickered out and died. He huffed and sipped his tea.

"Oh dear, that was my favourite camera. I think someone trod on it."

"That's a shame." Neal tugged on his Nikes, tightening the laces with practiced movements. "We should probably get out of here… Nice tech, by the way, Moz. How did you link all those cameras up with your phone?" Mozzie clambered to his feet. He looked smug.

"I had to design a whole new app. Cool, right?" Neal nodded.

"What did you call it?" Mozzie grabbed his stuff and downed his tea in one great gulp. Then he shot Neal an effervescent grin.

"iSpy." Neal laughed out loud, swooping in for a high five, before doing a final check of the warehouse. They had left nothing. Mozzie shoved a sofa out of the way, revealing a trap door built into the carpet. He tapped in a 30 digit long key code, then dropped through the hole just as the warehouse doors began to rattle. The FBI had resorted to using battering rams. Neal sighed, taking one last look at the warehouse that had been his art studio and second home for the past two months. He knew he could never return. He tipped an imaginary hat to the shaking warehouse doors, knowing that the frustrated agents were mere metres away from the criminal they were so desperate to catch. "Nice try, Peter." He whispered. Then with a cheeky grin, Neal slid through the hole and out to safety.

* * *

**Hey guys, hope you enjoyed this chapter. Would love to hear your thoughts! Thanks for reading :)**


	5. Chapter 5

Diana was in a very fortunate position. She had in her possession 3 glue sticks. One weighed 11g. Another was 22g. And the final one was a whopping size 44g, the mother of all glue sticks. On her desk, she had arranged a rubber and a biro so that they lay parallel to her photo of her girlfriend. They would form the foundations. Very, very slowly, Diana picked up the largest glue stick. She balanced it on the rubber, then carefully reached for the next. She perched the smaller stick on top of its big brother with slow, nimble fingers. Finally, she picked up the smallest tube. _Come on Diana._ She told herself. _You can do this…_ Trying her absolute hardest to keep her hand steady, she gently placed the final glue stick on top of all the others. Barely breathing, she glided her hand away from the construction. _Oh my God. _She had done it! She had made The Leaning Tower of Glue! This achievement was so sweet it _almost_ brushed away her bitter resentment at not catching Neal Caffrey. Almost.

The kid was infuriating. She _knew _that Caffrey had been in that warehouse the other day. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name. But somehow, the kid had managed to slip away like some sort of god-damned kick-ass ghost, and now he was nowhere to be found. Diana took deep, calming breaths. She had made The Leaning Tower of Glue. Maybe she wasn't such a useless agent after all.

"DIANA!" With an almighty roar, Peter Burke burst through the door of Diana's office.

"Aaaaaah!" She jerked back in her chair as glue sticks tumbled to the floor all around her, like rain drops in the jungle. "You have got to be kidding me…" She muttered. Peter glanced at the fallen tower, a slow smile creeping up his face.

"Now _that_ is revenge for you bursting into my office and scaring me earlier." He chuckled. Then his expression turned grave.

"But seriously, Diana. We know where Caffrey is. Conference room. Now." THAT got Diana's attention. Abandoning her destroyed glue construction, she followed her boss deep into the heart of the White Collar Division. Neal Caffrey was going _down. _

* * *

Neal Caffrey started his day by singing along to the radio whilst slipping on a white collared shirt. He wore the school uniform well – the long sleeved shirt not too tight over his lean, muscled chest, the blazer hanging nicely on his slender frame. He twirled around in front of the hallway mirror, ran his fingers through his bed head, then finished off the song with a high pitched trill.

"Neal? What are you doing?" The voice came from the kitchen.

"Err… Nothing. Just getting ready for school." Neal smiled as June, his not so legal guardian and the owner of the apartment he called home, popped her head round the door. She only came to visit him once every six months or so, to see how he was getting on in her apartment whilst she travelled the world with her daughter.

"Didn't sound like nothing to me." She announced, eyes twinkling. "You're a very talented singer, Neal. Are you _sure_ that you don't want lessons?" Neal shrugged self-consciously. He hated singing in front of other people.

"Nah, I'm alright. But thanks anyway, June." He called. June laughed as she pottered back to the fry up that was spitting away angrily on the stove.

"Byron was just the same, sweetie. Lovely singing voice, but did he want to take lessons? Of course not. He always believed that singing was for him and him alone." Neal slowly turned back to the mirror, the echo of a smile still playing on his lips. From what he had heard of June's late husband Byron, he guessed that the two of them would have been great friends.

* * *

Peter and his team were gathered around the oak table in the conference room. Despite the early hour and the rain that was lashing the floor to ceiling windows; everyone was in extraordinarily high spirits. The news that Neal Caffrey's location had been discovered had spread like wildfire. Peter was being hailed as a White Collar hero, and he couldn't help but feel a _little_ smug when his boss Hughes personally made him a cup of celebratory coffee. Now Peter was standing at the front of the room, with a PowerPoint rotating behind him and the table dripping with blue prints and files.

"Ok people, as I'm sure you know, earlier this morning we received some important intel. Two police officers in a patrol car reported to us that they had seen a teenager matching Caffrey's description in downtown New York. They didn't get a good look at his face, but they were 99% sure that it was him. We coupled this discovery with one made earlier: a homeless man claiming that he had seen Caffrey loitering outside a warehouse last week."

Peter looked round at his team of assembled agents. They were hanging off his every word, flicking through ring binders and making notes. Peter continued. "We came to the conclusion that Caffrey must be staying in the city, so at Diana's suggestion," Peter paused to nod approvingly at his probie, "we did a search of the local schools." He clicked a mouse and the whole room gasped in collective amazement. The screen was dominated by a yearbook photo of Neal Caffrey. He had cut his hair short and fluffy, and donned a pair of large, fashionable glasses. He was almost unrecognizable - but the agents could still pick out his signature, effervescent smile. The smile that whispered _trust me, trust me._ The smile of a con man.

"He's going by the name Nick Halden." Peter explained. "We did a search on the alias and found absolutely nothing. We don't know where Caffrey's staying or where he has been prior to this school, but that doesn't matter. We close in and arrest him today."

* * *

Neal padded into the kitchen, drawn by the wafting scent of frying bacon and buttered toast. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down behind the kitchen table. June slid a plate piled high with steaming food under his nose with a smile.

"Here you go, sweetie."

"Wow, June. This is amazing! Thank you." Neal grinned up at the woman who had looked out for him for so many years, and reached for the brown sauce.

"Oh, no worries." June waved her hands affably. "I woke up this morning with the urge to cook, so I thought I'd treat you." She wrapped her gentle fingers around her own coffee cup and sat down opposite Neal. The teenager was tearing into the full English breakfast vivaciously, barely pausing to breathe. "So Neal." She said. "What's wrong?"

Neal's fork stopped mid-air.

"What do you mean? I'm fine." June steepled her fingers together, leaning in towards him. When she spoke again, her voice was warm, earnest.

"Neal, you're acting weirdly. If there's one thing I learnt from living with Byron, it's that con men are, by their very nature, contradictory. When they're angry, they act calm. When they're sad, they act happy. This morning you did yoga and danced to the radio. So what are you, sweetie? Angry or sad?" Neal sighed. June knew him too well.

"Neither. Both. I'm… confused." June nodded, dark curls bouncing.

"What's the problem?" Neal took a deep breath.

"Well… yesterday, I had a little argument with Mozzie."

"But the two of you are such good friends! And Mozzie is such a kind young man. We play Cluedo together."

"I know… but, well, there was an incident yesterday. Somehow the FBI found our warehouse and we had to flee." June looked shocked.

"What? The _FBI_ found your warehouse? Neal, why are you still here? You have to leave New York immediately!" Neal shook his head patiently.

"No, no, it's fine. Really. We erased all signs of our presence, and destroyed anything that might link us to the school or to you. We're safe, honestly. Besides, if we leave now, it will raise suspicion. It would put us in even more danger." Neal ran his hands through his hair wearily. He looked frazzled.

"Ok. So what were you arguing with Mozzie about? It must have upset you quite a bit."

"Oh, just the usual. After what happened yesterday, Mozzie wanted to up sticks and leave. He thinks that we're gonna be found out or something. It's ridiculous – we don't have to leave just because the FBI stormed our warehouse."

June cocked her head at him, and sipped her coffee delicately.

"Sweetie, maybe Mozzie has a point. It might not be safe for you here." Neal closed his bright blue eyes.

"June." He whispered. "I'm tired of running. I don't want to be frightened away from my home. I don't want to abandon my life in New York." June studied him for a moment. Then her lips cracked into a huge, white toothed grin. She reached for Neal's hand, still smiling.

"Neal, I sense that there is something more to all of this. Are you reluctant to leave because of a… _girl_?" Neal was suddenly _very _interested in his bacon and eggs. June laughed. "What's she like?"

He thought for a moment.

"She's… perfect."

* * *

Peter, Diana and ten other agents were huddled round the huge table in the conference room. The entire surface was covered with freshly photocopied blueprints of Merrinote High School, the school that Neal Caffrey was attending. The fact that this school was located not three blocks away from the FBI building wasn't lost on Peter. After realising that he could actually _see_ the school from his office window, he had reluctantly admitted that Caffrey had _guts_. He was brave. But his bravery was bordering on cocky and Peter knew that the FBI had won this round. Caffrey was young and impulsive, and although he had been on the run for five years, his freedom was drawing to a close.

Peter didn't want to admit it, but he knew that if Caffrey was older the bureau would have been hard pressed to catch him. Peter reckoned that if in 20 years Caffrey was still pursuing a life of crime, he would be the greatest con man the world had ever seen.

"Boss, I checked with the school. Caffrey is in today. Here's his timetable." Diana snapped Peter away from his thoughts and handed him a printed sheet. He scanned it quickly. Art, physics, maths geography, French, Spanish. Peter glanced down at his watch, noting the time with a practiced eye. It was 10:30 in the morning. Caffrey would be halfway through physics by now.

"Ok, team. Listen up." Peter raised his voice to be heard over the general chatter swirling around the conference room, and at his request everyone fell silent. "Here's the plan. We've come to the conclusion that we need to arrest Caffrey during the school day _today_. If we leave it any later, he might slip through our fingers and _that_ would be absolutely disastrous. We all know that Caffrey is good at escaping. He can talk his way out of many stressful situations and his youth and athletic ability enable him to scamper around past checkpoints and through road blocks. Need I remind you of the 2009 incident where he jumped over a police car driving towards him with his hands tied behind his back?" The assembled agents all winced. That had been a dark day for the bureau, (even if everybody had been secretly impressed). "Anyway… I propose that we strike _here_." Peter circled a room on the blueprint in black permanent marker. "This is Caffrey's geography room and it is on the top floor of the school, furthest away from the two flights of stairs. Escape from this room will be hard, even for someone like Caffrey." Peter glanced across at Diana and Jones. "Jones, I want you setting up road blocks. Diana – organise the SWAT team. We'll nab Caffrey in geography."

* * *

It was half eleven in the morning and Neal was walking through the corridors of Merrinote. He was skiving off maths, but he didn't really care. What he was doing now was _much_ more important. Neal reached his locker and unlocked it using a special key and a password entered into his Blackberry. With a little help from Mozzie, he had tricked out the locker and boosted the security features by 167%. The locker was safe from school thieves and small time lock pickers, and the fact that it was a locker in a high school meant that it was also safe from anyone with professional tools. The primitive safe was beyond notice and, as Neal knew, people didn't steal things that weren't important. Smiling softly to himself, Neal reached into his backpack and drew out his forgery of the Mona Lisa. He had finished it overnight and with a few little tweaks and some help from June, the painting now met his high standards. He was confident that it could pass most tests, including those imposed by art crimes experts. Wondering if he was making a huge mistake by placing a 6 million dollar painting in a school locker, Neal slipped the canvas into the metal box. He closed the door, locking it securely. _Phew._Neal turned fluidly and strolled off deeper into the school.

The next lesson was geography.

* * *

**Heyy guys, hope you enjoyed this chapter! The meeting of Peter and Neal, and the subsequent touching relationship is coming soon, I promise! I would love a review :)**


	6. Chapter 6

Neal Caffrey: fifteen year old forger, master con man and infamous thief, was sitting in his GCSE geography lesson. Rain lashed the windows of the top floor humanities classroom, sending beads of pearly moisture whipping up to kiss the dust infected glass. Neal stared out at the feral elements, eyes dreamy. He often found that the hissing rain was one hell of a lot more interesting than school.

It didn't help that he _hated_ geography. He had memorised the names of every country and capital city on the planet when he was five years old, and in his line of work, he didn't need to know anything about plate tectonics or population pyramids. He had already learnt all the skills that could be gleaned from geography; the subject could offer him no more. Neal tuned out the droning voice of the substitute teacher and freed his mind to drift.

The sight of the pouring rain dragged Neal back to his first day at Merrinote. He remembered how the fat globules of water had trickled down the windscreen of June's stolen Ford Fiesta, pooling on the scratched bonnet and drowning the entire world. He had sat in the idling car for a good ten minutes, toying with his seatbelt, watching the downpour - trying to stall the inevitable. Though he was embarrassed to admit it, Neal had been too scared to enter the building straight away. His last experience with school had been short and not all too terribly sweet; the thought of once again entering the education system filled him with a sort of primitive dread. The fact that this was a high risk move only cranked up the pressure. Neal was topping Most Wanted lists worldwide, and he was still the subject of colossal manhunts. His life was a high octane game of cat and mouse - with only one mouse and an awful lot of cats. Despite being initially confident in his plan to enrol in school, now that he was sitting outside… he suddenly hadn't been so sure.

It had been June who had given him the push he needed. She had placed a calming hand on his shoulder and looked deep into his scintillating blue eyes. _Neal,_ she had said, in that rich, steady voice he had grown to trust, _You're one in a million. One in a million! Now go in there and dazzle them with that smile of yours._ He had nodded slowly. Given June a hug. Taken a deep breath. Then he had hopped lightly out of the car and sauntered through the double doors of Merrinote with a cheeky smile and a confident swagger. He hadn't looked back.

* * *

"Nick?" The braying voice of his geography teacher, Miss Bedfordshire, snapped him away from the blurry world of memory. Miss Bedfordshire was today's substitute teacher, standing in for the usual balding Mrs Blake, and Neal had never seen her before in his life. But in a school as big as this one, Neal supposed that new subs were employed all the time. He glanced up, trying his best to look like he was paying attention.

"Uh, yeah?"

"What sort of plate boundary does the diagram show on the board?" The teacher demanded; her tone every bit like the no-nonsense ululation of a SWAT commander. The resemblance was uncanny. Neal squinted up at the whiteboard, cursing silently as he tried to work out the solution. Truth was, he had no idea – to him, the diagram was just a series of squiggles and meaningless lines. He decided to give it a shot anyway. _Never break character._ He mentally berated himself. _Nick Halden wouldn't have been caught daydreaming. He would've known the answer to this question._ Neal cleared his throat.

"Well, the diagram OBVIOUSLY shows a… uh…"

"_Destructive boundary_." Kate, who was sitting next to him, murmured the words under her breath.

"A destructive plate boundary." Neal finished the sentence smoothly, inserting the answer without pause. Sometimes it helped to be a conman. Miss Bedfordshire subjected him to a long, pointed look, but made no comment.

"Good… Nick." She drawled, and Neal blinked in surprise. His sharp mind stepped up a gear, instantly analysing all the connotations of what he had just heard. Had Miss Bedfordshire just _hesitated_? It was almost as if another name, not Nick Halden, had been dancing on the very tip of her tongue. That sent alarm bells ringing in his head - but he quickly quelled them. _Keep calm and carry on._ His inner self whispered. Neal took a deep, shuddering breath, and started to mentally calculate escape routes. One can never be _too_ careful.

"Destructive boundary is right." The draconian teacher continued. "But next time, Nick, I would appreciate it if you paid attention to my lesson instead of gazing out the window." The words were scathing.

"Sure thing, Miss." Neal smiled a perfect, contrite smile that had been custom built for teachers. Miss Bedfordshire held his eyes for a further heartbeat, then slowly faced the class.

Neal waited until the teacher had switched her attention back to the lesson at hand before finally turning to Kate. He shot her a dazzling grin – a grin which she deflected away by breaking eye contact. Neal raised his eyebrows at her hostility, then leaned in towards her. She sidled away.

"Thanks for helping me, Kate. I'm so bad at geography -" He started.

"No you're not. You would be good if you put some effort in." Kate deadpanned. The pair elapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

Their relationship had shrivelled up and died two days ago. That was when Neal had decided that he liked Sara more than he liked Kate. It was also the day that Kate had made a new… friend. _Hey Nick. I'm Gordon Taylor. But you can call me Kate's boyfriend._ Neal still wanted to punch the guy. Ignorant, arrogant, flamboyant swine… but at least he made Kate happy. Neal had to admit that maybe it was for the best. With Kate pursuing her own romantic interests, Neal was free to cultivate his relationship with Sara. He was released from the love triangle that had ensnared his thoughts for the past week, but he wasn't safe from _all_ his problems. The feds were still hot on his heels, and after the close shave with the warehouse the other day, they would be hounding him more relentlessly than ever. Neal shivered and returned to gazing furtively out the window, thoughts rattling around his head like tennis balls in the Wimbledon final.

* * *

Sara Ellis was sitting two rows behind Neal. She had been paired with Gordon Taylor, the charming new guy from England who also happened to be going out with Kate Moreau. After pestering the London born Gordon about whether he had met the Queen (to which he tersely replied with "No. Have _you_ met Barack Obama?") Sara had settled back to do her geography coursework. And sneakily listen to her iPod. And spy on the boy she knew by the name of Nick Halden. He really did have lovely hair, she reflected. Lovely face too – earnest and gorgeous and oh so dastardly clever. His glasses sat well on his angled features, and his styled hair captured the light beautifully. Sara suspected that nothing on God's Earth could make Nick Halden even a _milligram_ less attractive. Everything about him was perfect in her eyes, right down to the braces on his teeth. The brackets were a deep metallic navy, and the colour served to enhance his snow white smile and bring out the electric blue that threaded through his eyes.

"Glasses _and_ braces, but I must say – he works it." Sara glanced over at the person who had just voiced her thoughts aloud. It was Gordon Taylor. He was sitting back on his plastic chair, watching her watch Nick with a thoughtful expression on his smooth face. "You know, Sara," He started. "I'd be careful around old Nick over there. I've met his type before, and-" But Gordon never got to finish his sentence. At that exact moment, a thunderous whirring,  
throbbing hum reverberated throughout the room. Deafening. Foreboding. A deluge of leaves, stripped from a nearby tree, took flight and pasted themselves against their top floor classroom windows. The assorted blood red leaves had been blasted by a great surge of air that sent the blinds swinging crazily and papers flying everywhere.

"What the hell was that?" Sara shouted over the noise. Gordon didn't reply. He was staring out the window, horror flickering in his eyes.

"Christ, that's a…"

"Helicopter." Sara finished. She shielded her eyes and stared out at the monstrous copter. The thing had glided so close to their classroom window it was almost grazing the brickwork, and her fellow classmates were all staring at it with a mix confusion and terror. Sara could see the blaring words POLICE painted along the side of the beast; she could see the ghostly silhouette of a machine gun wielding task force moving about in the cockpit. They were close enough for her to glimpse the whites of their eyes.

The class erupted into pure chaos. There were a few shouts of "AWESOME!" and the click as smart phones gobbled up photos of the bizarre sight. Miss Bedfordshire yelled for silence, and as the helicopter glided away from the window to circle high above the school, the class began to settle down. Now that the blinding noise had dulled to a distant hum once more, the general hubbub faded into a tense, shocked quiet. Sara glanced around shakily. It was the closest she had come to death all year.

She studied the class in an attempt to calm her nerves, and noticed that, unlike everyone else, Nick Halden hadn't sat down. He was still on his feet. He was staring at Miss Bedfordshire. His hands were in the air. The teacher had a gun pointed at his head.

"Neal Caffrey." Miss Bedfordshire sneered, a thin smile playing on her lips. "I'm Special Agent Lauren Cruz. FBI." The gun lowered to level with Nick's left kneecap.

"You're under arrest."

* * *

**Hey guys :) Thanks for reading! I must say, I wasn't overjoyed with the way this chapter turned out. It feels kinda disjointed… Anyway, consider this chapter an appetizer for what is about to come! Would love to hear your thoughts, please give me a review! They really brighten up my day! :)**


	7. Chapter 7

Neal stared down the barrel of the gun that was clasped in the FBI agent's steady hands.

"Wow." He smiled, trying to look at ease. "I must say, Miss Bedfordshire, I did _not_ see that coming."

"Shut up." She snarled. Neal raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He was standing in the middle of the classroom with his ink stained hands raised in surrender. Needless to say, he had the undivided attention of the entire room and his classmates were staring at him with sheer terror splashed across their faces. He felt a sudden surge of pity for them - they had absolutely no idea what was going on. From her position by his side, Kate reached up and grabbed at his sleeve.

"Nick! What… w-what's going on? Why is she p-p-pointing a g-gun at you?" Neal gently tugged his arm free from her fingers. If he showed that there was even a _hint_ of a connection between him and Kate, the FBI would be all over her.

"Nothing, Kate. It's fine." Neal squinted up at the agent who had, until five minutes ago, been his geography teacher. "Where's your backup?" He asked her calmly.

"There is no backup. I was the only one authorised to bring you in."

"Please." Neal rolled his eyes. "I'm an internationally wanted criminal, globally renowned art thief and a pretty damn decent forger." Neal's lips tilted upwards in a killer smile. "Allegedly." He lifted his piercing eyes to meet hers. "Anyway, seeing as I am, _allegedly_, dangerous, why would the feds send _one_ helicopter and _one_ agent to arrest me? I must say, I expected more." Ignoring the gasps that the statement brought to the lips of his classmates, Neal studied Agent Cruz. "So I repeat. Where is your backup?"

That was when the door of the classroom slammed open with a deafening reverberation. It hung drunkenly off broken hinges, swaying slightly in the breeze from the open window. Neal stared at it._ Well. _He thought grimly. _There's the backup._ Twelve gun wielding police officers in bullet proof vests stormed into the room, shouting for silence, blocking the exit, securing the perimeter. They were led by none other than Peter Burke.

Neal snapped free from his dreamy state shock with a muttered curse as his classmates, screaming, threw themselves under the tables. Though his mind was whirling with escape routes, exit strategies and the words _I should have listened to Mozzie,_ Neal forced himself to concentrate. He had to keep his wits about him. If he panicked now…

* * *

"CAFFREY – FREEZE! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!" Peter bellowed. Neal looked at him calmly. He still hadn't moved from his relaxed position - leaning languorously against a desk, hands slightly raised, ankles crossed elegantly.

"Hey Peter." His smile was rueful. "Nice to finally meet you face to face." Peter could hardly believe his ears. The kid had _nerve_.

"That's _Agent Burke _to you, Caffrey. Hands on your head!" Peter growled, and Neal slowly raised his hands to rest against his dark hair.

"Happy now?" Peter ignored him. He turned to Jones, who stood waiting by his side, face blank.

"Go on." Peter murmured. Jones nodded once and started towards Neal, a pair of handcuffs glittering in his fist. Neal watched him approach steadily, and Peter marvelled at the distinct lack of fear in the teenager's ebullient blue eyes.

"U-um, um… excuse me." A timid voice pierced the silence. Peter whirled around. He had been so wrapped up in thoughts of Neal Caffrey (and why said Neal Caffrey wasn't making any attempt to run) that he had all but forgotten about the 30 other school children in the classroom. The voice had come from a girl with red hair pulled back in a loose bun. She looked terrified.

"Yes?" Peter asked, not unkindly. The girl gulped.

"Uh, who's…who's… who's Neal Caffrey?" She stuttered, before jerking her head over at Neal and Jones. "That's Nick Halden." She said it with such conviction that Peter was almost impressed. Neal certainly knew how to keep up an alias – one strong enough to con even his classmates. He glanced over at Neal curiously. The teenager was looking at the red headed girl with genuine sadness, possibly even regret, in his eyes. Neal slowly took off his glasses, revealing the face that was splashed across wanted posters worldwide.

"I'm so sorry, Sara." He whispered. "I…" He swallowed. "I was going to tell you."

"You have a right to remain silent." Jones snapped, as he wrenched Neal's hands behind his back and secured them with the cuffs. Neal winced – though Peter suspected it was because of the cold look he was getting off the Sara girl, and not because of Jones. He almost felt a stab of pity for Neal… but that was ridiculous. The kid had brought this upon himself. Jones wheeled Neal around to face the exit, but before the group could leave the classroom and head for the secure transport vehicle downstairs, Neal stopped dead in his tracks.

"What are my charges?" He asked politely, eyes finally dancing away from Sara to rest on Peter's face. Peter sighed.

"We'll go through your charges when we get to headquarters. Now come on, Caffrey." But Neal wasn't going anywhere.

"I have the right to know. I've studied arrest procedures. I have the right to know the charges listed on my arrest warrant, and _you_ are not allowed to deny me that right." Peter cursed under his breath. Trust Neal to always find some sort of loophole. Peter wasn't quite sure what Neal was up to, but he knew the kid was playing some sort of angle. Stalling for time, perhaps. Or trying to prove to Sara and his friends that he wasn't a bad person. But whatever Neal was planning, Peter had no choice but to play along. With a great deal of grumbling, Peter drew out the arrest warrant from his pocket and started reading.

* * *

"Let's see… Neal Caffrey, you are charged with theft, trespassing on private property, trespassing on government property, money laundering, association with international fugitives, in particular the criminal fence known as Rusty…" Neal forced himself to keep calm as Peter continued to list his offences. God, the feds knew a _lot_, but at least he would go down in style. If he was even _going_ to go down. Neal had requested for his charges to be read out so that he would have time to crack the handcuffs and plan his escape. He was already working on the cuffs with a paper clip. And he had a half-baked escape plan that involved a pack of tic tacs and some ninja skills. He was pretty certain that it would work.

"Underage driving. Accessory to robbery." Neal had to choke back a protestation at that one. Accessory? He had _masterminded_ that thing – though it was probably best if Peter didn't know that. The list continued. "Breaking and entering. _Fifty seven_ counts first degree burglary. Fare dodging on public transport." Neal couldn't keep silent any longer. He looked at Peter incredulously.

"Seriously, Peter? An old lady faints and I stay on the train an extra stop to help her. How is that fare dodging?" Peter stopped reading.

"You're right. _Normally_ it wouldn't count as fare dodging. The rail services only filed that charge after you tried to pickpocket a train guard." Neal raised his eyebrows, a playful smile coming to his lips.

"Fair enough, I suppose. Was the lady alright, by the way?"

"Yes. I do believe she was." Peter looked amused. He was a lot less intimidating when he wasn't scowling. But then the grin melted off his face and he continued with the list. "What's next… oh yes. Hacking government databases and leaking highly sensitive information." He paused. "And that, Caffrey, is all I am required by law to tell you. You will be informed of the rest of your charges at headquarters _like I said_."

Neal smiled softly. The lock of the handcuffs had broken with a soft click, and he knew that if he timed the next five minutes right, he was free. Jones once again placed a hand on his shoulder. Neal shot one final glance at Sara.

"Call me." He murmured, staring into her eyes. "I'll explain everything – I promise."

"Caffrey…" Peter warned. He could practically _feel_ the mischievous energy coming off the kid in waves. Neal grinned up at him.

"Sorry Peter. But I gotta go." And with that, Neal threw the handcuffs that hung loose on his slender wrists to the floor and leapt up onto a table top. All hell broke loose as Neal made his bid for freedom. Jones, shouting up a storm, fumbled for his gun, but Neal drew out a pack of tic tacs from his pocket and lobbed them at his head. Jones recoiled with an explosion of curses. Neal ran across the table top, dodging the hands that grasped at his ankles, ignoring the screams (some supportive, some petrified) of his classmates.

He reached the end of the line of desks and found himself facing Peter Burke. The agent was blocking the only door. Neal winked at him, then launched himself up into the air. With a well-timed somersault that took even Neal by surprise, he vaulted over Peter's head, out the door and into the corridor. As he jumped past Peter, the agent grappled at Neal's air borne body and managed to clutch a converse clad foot. The contact caused Neal to hit the floor awkwardly. He felt his ankle crack with the impact. Pain flared up his leg. Neal gritted his teeth and ignored it. He was outside the geography room, away from the agents and away from Peter. Ignoring the burning pain in his ankle, Neal broke into a sprint.

* * *

Peter swore and tore after Neal, shouting orders into his watch. This was going to be one _hell_ of a chase.

* * *

**Hahaha, and you guys thought that Neal was going to go down without a fight... :) Hope you enjoyed this and thanks for all the support! Please, drop me a review! :) **


	8. Chapter 8

Neal raced down the hallway, his heart pounding like so many staccato notes in a frenzied melody. He refused to slow down - even when his ankle screamed in protest and dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. Neal gritted his teeth against the pain and kept on running.

"He's clear! He's away from the kids! Open fire! _Aim for the knees!_" Neal swore explosively. The person barking the orders was Special Agent Diana Berrigan, and Neal had done his homework. He knew that she had excellent aim – best in the bureau. Neal thought fast. They couldn't shoot at him if he was surrounded by school children, so… With a sudden burst of energy, he skidded to a halt and dived into the nearest classroom.

Thirty sophomores stopped mid conversation as he burst through the double doors, their heads snapping up with frightening speed to stare at him. Neal shifted uncomfortably as sixty eye balls latched onto his. Mr Harris, the maths teacher who had _almost_ confiscated his phone last week, stood up in alarm at Neal's abrupt entrance, his expression bemused bordering belligerent.

"Nick?" He asked, as a deadly silence descended on the classroom. "Next time, I would appreciate it if you, you know, _knocked_ before entering my lesson."

"Uhh…" For once, Neal was lost for words. "Um, Mr Harris-"  
"FBI! Dammit, Caffrey! _FREEZE!_" Neal whirled as Peter Burke entered the classroom right behind him. Everyone (including Mr Harris) screamed at the sight of the weapon toting agent who had appeared from nowhere. Peter lunged and grabbed Neal's arm, his fingers firm.

"Look, Peter." Neal started, as more feds rushed into the room. "We've been through this. I appreciate the effort, but I'm just _not_ going to come with you."

"You don't have a choice, Caffrey!" Peter growled, utterly exasperated. Neal only tutted.

"Peter. There's _always_ a choice."

And with that, Neal twisted free from Peter's grip and vaulted over the teacher's desk at the front of the room. Peter swore and dived after him, shoving the desk away furiously, fumbling for his gun at the same time - but the teenager was already grappling with the handle of the classroom's second door. Neal tossed Peter a 1000 watt grin and disappeared back out into the corridor.

Neal hit the stairway and slid down the bannister to the next level. His ankle was on _fire_. He was worried he was going to do himself some permanent damage if he kept on running – but he couldn't exactly call a "time out" and trot off to get an ice pack. The feds would probably give him medical attention if they caught him. The thought made Neal smile grimly. He would take burning pain over handcuffs _any_ day of the week. He made it to the first floor and hopped off the bannister, stumbling slightly as he landed. Neal turned left. And stopped dead in his tracks. The entire left corridor was packed with federal agents, at least twenty. Every single one of them had a gun aimed at his head.

"Absolutely bloody _marvellous_." Neal muttered, as he slowly wheeled around to face back the way he had come. He swore again as he saw that the staircase was blocked by the team who had been chasing him since geography. Neal recognised the serious face of Diana Berrigan, but he couldn't see Peter anywhere. Maybe he had gone to grab a sandwich. Neal knew he liked devil ham.

"Caffrey." Diana implored. Her voice was soft, low, calming. The voice of a professional negotiator. "Please, Neal, just give yourself in. There's nowhere for you to go." Neal looked around, trying to keep his movements controlled and relaxed. It wouldn't do to come across as frantic. His eyes fell on the lonely window set in the stairwell wall. Neal did a quick calculation. What he was planning was mental, but it might actually work…

"Neal, if you surrender now, we could work out some sort of deal." Diana continued, speaking slowly. Neal held her gaze for a moment, his thoughts rearranging themselves into one, solid escape plan. Then he shot her a grin that would have made the Cheshire Cat himself _purr_ with envy and sprinted for the window. "Caffrey!" Neal heard Diana shout in alarm. He ignored her. Limping ever so slightly, Neal raced towards the glass pane, head ducked, shoulder braced for impact.

That was when his world derailed.

There was a small explosion, and a blinding pain ripped through his consciousness. Neal clawed through the confusion that blanketed his mind, forcing himself to decode the situation. Someone had shot at him! He fought for breath. His arm felt curiously hot. His vision flickered in dizzying circles. But he still had his momentum.

With a resounding CRACK, Neal smashed through the window. Shards of glass billowed all around him, embedding themselves in his hands, nicking his face with their razor teeth. He was flying. No. He was _falling._

Neal landed in the school's recycling bin with a delicate _poof._ Scraps of paper swirled all around him as he sunk beneath the surface, gasping for breath. "Note to self." Neal mumbled, as he rubbed his face and cradled his arm. His artist's fingers came away glistening with blood. "Don't smash through windows." His weak laughter at the feeble joke ended in a coughing fit.

"He landed in the recycling bin! All units downstairs!" Neal groaned as the shouted orders wafted towards him. He sat up and hissed sharply as an electric pain wracked through his chest. His ribs… Well, he would just have to tend to them later. Steeling himself, Neal looked down at his right arm instead. His white school shirt was soaked in blood, but as far as he could tell, the bullet had only grazed him. He battled against the urge to black out.

"Bloody hell." Neal staggered out of the recycling bin and limped back into the school, just as the first agents emerged from one side. Thankfully they didn't see him and Neal was able to meander through the empty ground floor corridors, one hand clutched to his bullet wound. He passed a reflective display case stuffed with trophies and stopped. He looked _awful._ Broken glass glittered in his hair, his face was covered with several small cuts dribbling blood and there were scraps of paper stuck to his forehead. His shirtsleeve was now utterly scarlet, and more blood continued to pulse from the wound. Neal cleaned himself up as best he could and stumbled into the cafeteria, thoughts awhirl.

He couldn't believe how stupid he had been. _He should have listened to Mozzie. _The little guy had wanted to leave when the feds had stormed the warehouse, but Neal had overruled him. Why? Because of Sara. Because of June. Because of his life in New York. But now it was all over. Sara was probably furious at him for lying to her about something as fundamental as his _identity_, and what good was living in New York if he was living behind bars? His time at Merrinote was history. For a dangerous moment, Neal almost wanted to cry, but he forced himself to focus. _It wasn't over yet._ The feds had most of the school covered, but if he played his cards right, he could still get out of this mess with his freedom still intact. Neal took a shaky breath and went to find what he needed.

* * *

If there was one person on this planet who Peter knew better than anyone else, it was Neal Caffrey. (And Elizabeth, of course, but that was beside the point). He knew that Neal was a clever kid. Athletic too, if anything could be said about the way Neal had leapt over his head earlier. But he was also cocky. Everything he did, he did with style and class and one _hell _of a lot of flair. So if Neal was going to escape, he would do it in the most daring way possible. A way oh so terribly daring_,_ it would probably work. So Peter had come to the conclusion that Neal was going to escape the school by _walking out the front door_. Simple as that. The second he had realised this, Peter had abandoned the chase and sprinted out to the front of the school. Now, he was hiding behind a parked police car, waiting for Neal to appear and _hoping_ that he hadn't just made a terrible mistake.

Ten minutes later. Peter was tucking into his devil ham sandwich when the doors of the school swung open and a man hobbled out. He was wearing a white lab coat, a bow tie and a fedora, and he looked _exactly _like one of those hair brained scientists you would find on kids TV. Peter studied him for a moment. The man was obviously elderly, and he had a distinctive, low-key furtiveness about him that made Peter suspect he was a teacher popping out to have a sneaky cigarette. The man pottered towards Peter's hiding place.

Peter suddenly narrowed his eyes. Now that the man was closer, he saw that the hair beneath the hat was a deep brown. So where had Peter gotten the idea that the man was… _old_? He clamped down on his suspicions and forced himself to think logically. The man walked slowly, arms barely swinging, back hunched. He _walked_ like an old man. The man was acting! Peter swore and stood up. The "man" was Neal Caffrey.

"FREEZE!" Peter shouted, leaping up from behind the car. Neal nearly jumped out of his skin, before quickly blinking the surprise out of his eyes and standing up straighter. Now that he wasn't acting like some sort of ancient mad scientist, Peter realised that the disguise itself was pathetic. It needed Neal to bring it to life, make it believable.

"Show's over, Houdini." Peter called, slowly approaching Neal. He was worried that the kid was going to run, but as he drew in closer he saw that that wasn't likely. Neal's face was scratched in numerous places and he his left ankle hung awkwardly. The first hint of blood from a hidden wound was beginning to soak through the sleeve of the lab coat. Neal was obviously injured. The teenager was practically swaying on his feet. "Easy there." Peter said, voice firm but oddly gentle. Neal laughed weakly - a bittersweet melody - and stuck out his hand. Peter stared at it for a moment, suspecting a trap, then shook it. Neal's fingers were surprisingly strong.

"Well played, Peter." Neal murmured. "Points for persistence."

Peter nodded slowly. "You weren't so bad yourself." He held Neal's sky blue eyes for a moment. "Neal-" He started. He never got to finish. At that exact moment, Diana charged out the school with a savage battle cry and slammed into Neal. Neal managed a strangled cry of protest before they both went down in a tangle of limbs.

"Diana?!" Peter roared. "I had it covered!" Diana slowly clambered to her feet, dragging Neal up to stand next to her. The teenager brushed down his clothes and shot her a distasteful glance. Diana looked embarrassed.

"Sorry, boss, I thought…" Peter shook his head.

"I know what you thought. Whatever, it doesn't matter. It's time we wrapped this up anyway." Peter placed both hands on Neal's shoulders and pinned him carefully against a car, not wanting to further injure the young forger. He secured the handcuffs around Neal's slender wrists.

* * *

Neal rested his head against the cool metal body of the police car, wincing when Peter jostled his arm. He fought to stay conscious. Just before he was shoved into the idling vehicle, Neal strained his neck and was rewarded with one final glance at the school he had attended for 2 months. He had been genuinely happy there. The windows of the old building were dominated by faces – his classmates all pushing for a view of the action. He saw smart phones filming and shocked faces gazing. He saw Sara Ellis with an expression like stone.

"I'm sorry, Neal." Peter whispered. Then he pushed Neal into the car and slammed the door.

* * *

Hey guys, hope you enjoyed this crazy chapter! I would love to hear your views - especially those regarding my ability to write action scenes! Please tell me if this was too disjointed, too detailed or too confusing... I would also like to thank Pirate18 for helping me come up with ideas for this chapter :) Thanks for reading and I would love to hear your thoughts!


	9. Chapter 9

"Could I please have a large cappuccino? With an extra shot…. Yes, in a to-go cup, if you please." Peter handed the barrister his money and stepped away from the counter. He loved coffee. It ranked as his number one beverage ever – higher even than _beer_. After a stressful day at work, caffeine was the one thing that could be counted on to calm Peter down. And God, had today been stressful. Chasing Neal Caffrey round a school, watching him smash through windows and dodge bullets… before finally running out of steam and ending up in Peter's custody. Now Peter had to babysit the kid in hospital. He wondered what El would make of _that_.

"Scuse me, sir, can I have a name?" Peter glanced up at the barrister with a distracted air. The round faced teenager had a sharpie poised over Peter's coffee cup, expectation dancing behind his spectacles. Peter analysed him automatically. He had an artist's fingers: deft and slender. Mischievous intelligence gleamed in his eyes.

"Name?" Peter asked dumbly. He wasn't in a very responsive mood. "Uh… Neal." He said after a pregnant pause, simply because it was the first word that came to mind. The Starbucks guy wrote it down dutifully and passed the cup on to his colleague, leaving Peter cringing. _Neal sodding Caffrey_. The teenager had permeated his mind to such an extent he was appearing on Peter's coffee cups! He shook his head morosely. He had to get a life.

Peter walked out of the coffee shop with a purposeful stride and winced when he hit the streets of New York. It was late autumn and the feral elements were out in full force. Rivers of frigid air hounded him as he hurried round the block, and the night air tasted like snow. By the time Peter got back to the hospital where Neal would be staying the night, the fingers clasped around his coffee cup were numb and his face was red and stinging. Trying not to shiver, Peter pushed through the double doors of the hospital and headed to the lift. Neal was on the fifth floor, under police guard until he was pronounced well enough to be interrogated in White Collar headquarters. Of course, that was assuming that Neal didn't escape first. If there was one thing that Peter had learnt over the past three years, it was that Neal Caffrey was one hell of a slippery fish.

Peter passed the bustling reception area and saw that the doors of the lift were just beginning to close. The lone person inside was making no effort to stop them. With a half-hearted lunge, Peter tried to grab the doors, but the metal plates slammed shut seconds before he could reach the button.

"Brilliant." Peter sighed, as he sipped at his still steaming cappuccino. "Jones, I'm back from the coffee place." He announced into his wristwatch, ignoring the stares from passersby. Stares that clearly said _thank God we're in a hospital because this chap is obviously mental._ "I'll be up to relieve you in five." Peter continued. He was rewarded with a crackly reply from his agent upstairs.

Peter allowed his mind to wander as he waited for the lift. He had to hand it to Jones. The loyal agent had stood at Neal's bedside for half an hour whilst Peter had been tracking down a decent cup of coffee, and he hadn't complained once. Peter knew that he had to send Jones home now. His agent was just itching to get away from the hospital and wash the blood stain from his shirt. Peter sighed. _The blood stain._ When they had been transporting Neal from the school to headquarters earlier that afternoon, Neal had suddenly keeled over in the back seat of the car and ended up on Jones' lap. That was when Peter had realised that the wound on Neal's arm was a _lot_ more than just a scratch. He had shouted at the driver to take them to hospital, before ripping off his tie and using it as a sort of tourniquet. It had been too late to save Jones' once white shirt, but Peter's efforts helped stem the bleeding just enough to keep Neal conscious. _Please, Neal, stay with me. It's gonna be alright. Dammit Neal, just hang on_. Peter had whispered in the teenager's ear, before the young criminal had been lifted onto a stretcher and carted into A and E. The con's hands had remained in chains throughout.

_Ding._

Peter looked up, his reverie broken. The doors of the lift had opened smoothly, revealing a shiny interior and a potted plant in one corner. He stepped inside and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

"Hey! Wait!" Peter stopped, grey eyes tracking the voice. A young man sporting glasses was sprinting up the stairs. He dived towards the lift (nearly dropping his briefcase in the process) and grappled at the doors. Peter stabbed the button and the man slid through without a second to spare. "Thanks, Suit." He panted, placing his briefcase on the floor. "Nothing frustrates me more than chasing lifts. Although in hindsight, it wouldn't have been disastrous if I had missed this one. To quote the English proverb, good things come to those who wait." Peter nodded absently, barely listening to the chatter whilst he unlocked his iPhone. He was going to text El an apology. He was planning to stay the night at the hospital – he had to help NYPD keep an eye on Neal. He also wanted to question the kid if he woke up and generally make sure that he was alright after being grazed by a bullet. But before his fingers could tap out the message, something made him pause. His FBI training kicked in and he surreptitiously studied the young man who was now poking the potted plant in the corner.

He was in his late teens, with a round face and spectacles. He had called Peter "Suit." Peter knew that that was a street name for federal agent. He also looked _very_ familiar. Peter narrowed his eyes. This was the same guy who had served him coffee in Starbucks not ten minutes ago! Though he was now wearing a checked shirt and a bow tie (he looked like a right tatterdemalion) it was undoubtedly the same kid.

"Tired of making coffee?" Peter asked, tone mordant. The teenager jumped and looked at him guiltily.

"Uh…"

"What's your name?" Peter asked.

"Don…tay. Dante Haversham."

"Pull the other one. It has bells on it." Peter raised his eyebrows when Haversham didn't answer. "What floor you headed to?"

"Fifth. How bout you, Suit?"

"Fifth as well. _What_ a coincidence." They stepped out of the lift together, and Peter watched as "Dante Haversham" wandered off with his briefcase in tow, humming something that sounded suspiciously like the batman theme. Peter suspected that this wouldn't be the last time he crossed paths with the interesting young man.

* * *

There were two policemen sitting outside the door to Neal's private room. Peter saw that they were both playing Temple Run on their smart phones, though it was obvious that neither of them were very good at it. He cleared his throat, waiting for them to notice him. The two officers jumped when they saw him standing there.

"Agent Burke-"

"Just let me in." The younger of the two fumbled for his keys and hurried to open the door.

Peter paced into the room and made a beeline for the sleeping Neal Caffrey. With his eyes closed and his face relaxed, the kid looked innocent. Vulnerable. His right ankle was in plaster, and Peter could just see the bandages wrapped around his chest peeking out from beneath his shirt. Stitches and gauze covered the cut on his left arm.

"Will he be alright?" Peter asked the nurse. She was a young and pretty creature – Peter had already seen the male doctors making bets on who would ask her out first. But she also had a down to earth vibe that demanded respect. She tossed her curls at him.

"We expect him to make a full recovery. Are you his legal guardian?"

"No. I'm FBI. His guardian is out of the country, so I suppose you could say that he's my responsibility until she returns." Peter tore his eyes away from Neal long enough to answer. The nurse looked sceptical.

"How long will that be?"

"6 months. Ish. She's travelling the world with her daughter. Neal over there lives in her apartment. She sends him letters and stuff, but there's no way to contact her whilst she's away." The nurse examined her perfect fingernails. If her expression could talk, it would say _why are you telling me this?_ Peter himself wasn't even sure why. Neal ending up in hospital had stressed him out more than he cared to admit, and it felt good to talk to someone. Even if that someone was probably bored out of her skull.

"How long will his ankle be in plaster for?" Peter asked, nodding his head at the sleeping teenager. The nurse sighed.

"Not long. A month at the most. It's only a sprain, but the x-rays show a few complications. Your agent…?"

"Jones. Agent Jones."

"Yes. Well, your agent said that Neal was _running_ on the ankle for about 40 minutes after the initial injury. That certainly won't aid his recovery." She looked at Peter accusingly, as if to say _I bet it was _you_ who made the poor boy run on his sprained ankle! _Peter huffed; indignant. The nurse had an annoying habit of saying a lot without even opening her mouth.

"Well, I'm pleased that he'll be ok." Peter said, to fill the awkward silence. Despite his nonchalant air, the thought gave him a warm, tingling feeling. _The kid was going to be alright_. Well, as alright as one could be when faced with a prison sentence that equalled the number of years Neal had been on the planet… though Peter didn't like to dwell on that. Sure, Neal had made some bad choices, but did he deserve prison? Peter didn't think so, at least.

"So, what did he do?" The nurse asked quietly. Peter followed her gaze to the handcuff that tethered Neal's left wrist to the headboard. He shifted uncomfortably.

"I don't believe that I'm at liberty to say." The nurse opened her mouth to protest, but the door of the ward swung open before she could speak.

"Neal, I liquidised some assets… Oh fiddlesticks." Peter whirled around. Standing in the doorway holding his briefcase aloft, was none other than 'Dante Haversham'.

"You have got to be kidding me." Peter growled. Haversham took a step back.

"Hah. Hah, silly me. Wrong room! I'll just, uh, take my leave. See you around, Suit."

"Not so fast." Peter stared down at the one-time barrister incredulously. "How in hell did you get past the guards at the door?" Haversham shrugged.

"I told them a cheat for Temple Run."

"I bet you did… Who _are_ you?" Haversham didn't answer.

"Moz? Mozzie… Is that… is that you?" The nurse snapped her head up at the feeble voice and rushed to Neal's bedside.

"He's waking up. Call the doctor." Peter arched his eyebrows at Haversham.

"Mozzie, huh? I'll deal with you later." He ushered the kid out of the room, annoyed that he didn't have the evidence to arrest him. _What had he meant by "liquidised some assets"? _Peter suspected that Mozzie was one of Neal's criminal friends, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He hurried over to where Neal lay sprawled out on the bed.

* * *

Neal cracked open his eyes and surveyed the room. His head throbbed and he felt strangely woozy, like the world was spinning in slow motion.

"P-P'ter?" His unfocused blue eyes locked onto the familiar face. "Wha… what's going…on?" Neal tried to sit up, but he found that his arm was chained to the bed. Panic blossomed as the memories slowly clicked into place. He had been _arrested._ What the hell? Neal fought to stay calm. "Peter? What's happening? What… what are you…" But his voice grew weaker as he battled to finish the sentence. He felt his mind slip back beneath the feathery waves of unconsciousness.

"I just added more sedative to the drip." An unfamiliar female voice floated towards him from across the void. "He'll be perfectly coherent tomorrow. Let him rest." Neal struggled against the weight of the drug, refusing to give in. Peter's concerned face swam into view.

"Neal, it's ok. _You can trust me_. Everything is going to be fine." It was the last thing that Neal heard before he drifted back to sleep.

* * *

Peter sighed and exited the small ward, leaving the teenager to dream. Why had he sounded like his own father just then? Peter vividly remembered falling off the monkey bars when he was seven years old. His dad had taken him to the hospital, where the scary doctors had stitched up the gash in his chin. Throughout the ordeal, his father had remained by his side, telling him that everything would be ok. Peter's mind flashed back to the conversation he had had with El earlier. How they had discussed fostering a teenager in the warmth of their kitchen. He shook himself mentally. Neal Caffrey was a criminal. If Peter didn't stop acting like he was the kid's goddamned _father_, Neal would use it against him. Steeling himself, Peter went to find more coffee. There had to be a coffee machine _somewhere_ in this sinister, white walled hospital.

"Burke? Can I have a moment?" Peter spun around. Standing in the corridor with his arms akimbo was his boss, Hughes. Peter grunted and followed the older man into the empty fifth floor waiting room, where they sat facing each other.

"What's this about?" Peter asked, apprehensive. Hughes was making it clear that this was not a pleasure visit.

"Congratulations on catching Caffrey at long last." Hughes started. Peter leaned back in his tattered chair. He sensed that there was a _but_ coming. "But OPR called. They disapproved of your methods. They want you to attend a small tribunal to determine whether or not arresting Caffrey at his school was the best move."

"What?" Peter spluttered. "Of course it was! If we had struck at any other time he would have gotten away for sure." Hughes held up a gnarled hand.

"I agree with you, Peter. But OPR doesn't. And as much as I hate to admit it, they do have a point. You arrested Caffrey, an unarmed teenager, in the middle of the school day. You brought live ammunition into an educational facility, and there is a high risk that the parents, faculty, students, even the _lunch ladies_ will sue the FBI. The political fallout could be impressive. Heads will roll, Peter, and yours will be the first on the chopping block."

Peter looked stunned. "Can I just say - there was a very high possibility that Caffrey was armed. I acted the way I did because Caffrey has the potential to be extremely dangerous-"

"Save it for the tribunal." Hughes sighed. He stood up, brushed down his three piece suit and walked out, leaving Peter to simmer. _Neal sodding Caffrey indeed._

* * *

**This chapter was rather Peter orientated... hope you enjoyed it! Would love to hear what you thought of it :)**


	10. Chapter 10

"So what made you decide to become a con man?" Peter asked. He was sitting behind the wheel of his mint-green Volvo, navigating deftly through the swirling whorls of early morning traffic. It was the day after Neal had been arrested, and having spent the night in hospital the kid was now sitting beside him in the passenger seat. Neal's dark hair framed his face in long, tousled curls; it was apparent that the teenager had literally just climbed out of bed. His long sleeved shirt was rumpled and he wore baggy jeans with rips in the knees. Somehow, that made him look like a some sort of world famous rock-star rather than a hobo. The slogan on Neal's shirt read _"What would Merlin do?"_ accompanied by a drawing of a young wizard wearing a scarf. Fashion was something Peter would _never_ understand. He shook his head like a horse ridding itself of a fly and flicked his eyes back to the road.

"Because you're not really a _man_, now, are you?" Peter continued, thinking of Neal's slender adolescent frame. "More of a boy. A con…boy. Conboy? Or perhaps it's a con-kid…"

"That sounds like a recipe Spanish cannibals would use." Neal said flatly. He was obviously in a foul mood. Peter supposed that the kid _did_ have a reason to be sullen – in retrospect, Peter _had _taken him away from the comforts of the hospital (the reclining bed, the view of the city, the friendly young nurses) and had forced him into his seriously uncool, "middle-aged-guy car". Still, it was better than travelling in a police vehicle with the sirens on, so Peter wasn't sure why Neal was being so moody.

"Peter, where are we going? Does it involve a lot of walking? Because I don't think that my ankle would like that." Neal said, after a pause. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he waited for an answer, and Peter suddenly realised that he was being an insensitive idiot. Neal was grumpy because he was in pain, and Peter made a mental note to go easy on the potholes. Gunning the engine over bumps in the road was probably _not_ the best idea if your passenger was using crutches.

"Don't worry, kiddo. There's an elevator."

"Cool."

The pair of them lapsed into an awkward silence. It lasted all the way until they reached the FBI building downtown.

Peter got out of the car and opened the door for Neal. He gestured to the pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt.

"Now, I don't want to put these on you, Neal, so please: don't do anything to make me change my mind." The threat came out wearily – it was obvious Peter was saying it just as a formality – but Neal bristled never the less.

"Don't worry, Peter. I'll play nice with your agents." He snapped. Peter sighed through his nose. _Kids these days. They take everything so… personally. _He led Neal into the building (trying to ignore the fact that Neal already seemed to know the way to the White Collar division) and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

* * *

"Good morning, Agent Burke." A man Neal recognised as Reese Hughes, head of White Collar, stepped out onto the landing. "And you brought Neal Caffrey, I see." Hughes nodded in their direction. Peter rattled off a nondescript reply and gently guided Neal forward.

"Neal, this is-"

"Mr Hughes." Neal finished smoothly. "It's great to finally have the pleasure of meeting you, sir." Despite the dull pain from his sprained ankle, bruised ribs and injured arm, Neal was determined to be controlled and fantastically polite when in the presence of the law. Pristine manners were the tools of the successful conman (or… "con-kid") and he was damned if he was going to forget that. Plus, kissing up to Hughes would annoy Peter for sure – especially after how distant he had been towards Peter in the car. Neal wasn't sure why, but for some reason he _really_ wanted to annoy Peter as much as possible. Maybe it was because all the time he had been in the agent's custody, Peter had been nothing but… nice. He had taken Neal in his own car instead of a secure transport vehicle, and had constantly checked that he was alright. Peter was the reason that he wasn't wearing handcuffs right now, and Peter was probably the reason why he was here at the FBI instead of awaiting his trial in prison. If Peter kept on looking out for him, Neal wasn't sure that he could keep up the pretence that he 'hated' the friendly agent much longer. Annoying Peter was a defence mechanism – a way for Neal to distance himself from one of the few people who genuinely cared for his welfare._ It's never a good idea to trust a federal agent, _he reminded himself sternly.

"Well, Caffrey." Hughes said, after looking Neal up and down. "If you would like to follow Agent Jones, he'll explain why I wanted to bring you to headquarters instead of sending you straight to a juvenile detention centre." Hughes quirked an eyebrow, expression dry. "Burke, come with me. I need to talk to you about your tribunal." Neal looked up at Peter in concern, forgetting momentarily that he was trying to act cold towards the agent.

"Tribunal?"

"Don't worry about it, Neal. It's nothing. Go with Jones."

"Doesn't sound like nothing-"

"Neal. Go with Jones. Please."

Neal sighed and turned fluidly on his heel to face Jones, who had – at some point in the conversation - materialised behind him.

"Morning, Jones." Neal said, voice heavy. He watched Peter and Hughes walk off in the direction of Peter's office. He knew he shouldn't worry about Peter. Worry was a sign that he cared about the older man. How many times did he have to remind himself? - it was _dangerous_ to grow attached to a special agent. But still, a tribunal? That couldn't be good.

"So why _am_ I at here?" Neal asked, if only to distract himself. Jones motioned for the pair of them to sit down at his desk.

"You want coffee? It's pretty diabolical, but coffee is coffee…"

"I want answers." Neal smiled when he said it. Classic con man trick. _Smile to take the edge off your words._ That little technique had enabled Neal, on numerous occasions, to say whatever the hell he had wanted - as long as he smiled. It was something he had learnt a _long_ time ago.

"Whatever you say, Caffrey." Jones leaned back in his chair. "The reason you're here is because you have something the bureau wants."

"And what might that be?"

"Knowledge, for one." Jones said. "Two years ago, your friend Matthew Keller stole a microchip. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

"Keller is _not_ my friend." Neal sniffed. "But yeah. I know what you're referring to." Jones nodded slowly before continuing.

"The microchip was very important. And when I say _very important,_ I don't mean very important. I mean _very _important." Neal raised his eyebrows.

"_Very _important. Got it." Jones smiled wanly.

"Sorry, Caffrey. It's just - you have to understand. The stolen microchip is very important. It contained all the data needed for the creation of the new 100 dollar bill. We were forced to stop production of the updated bill before we even began because, due to a regrettable lapse of security, Keller broke into our secure facility and ran off with the chip." Neal cocked his head to one side. The bullet wound in his arm killed. It sapped at his strength, shortened his attention span. He was having trouble concentrating on what Jones was saying.

"So Keller stole a microchip that told you how to make the new hundred dollar bill. What has that got to do with anything?" Jones leaned forward, as if getting ready to divulge a secret.

"We need that microchip back. And you know where it is."

"What? No I don't." Neal's expression was one of genuine puzzlement. "I stopped working with Keller ages ago when he… when he… killed a man in the middle of an operation." Neal finished in a rush. He still had nightmares about that day.

"Oh, you mean when you stole a Raphael and replaced it with one of your forgeries?" Jones smiled at Neal's stunned expression. "Yeah, we know about that one. But that doesn't matter. What _does_ matter is the location of the microchip. We have information that for the past two years, Keller has been amassing the equipment, material and personnel needed to create his own 100 dollar bills using the data from the chip." Neal looked unimpressed.

"So? People forge money every day. Trust me, I know." Jones shook his head fast enough to make his ears wobble disconcertingly.

"You have to understand – these _aren't _ forgeries. We couldn't make the bills ourselves without the data stored on that chip, so what Keller is trying to make right now… They aren't forgeries. These bills are originals. They're _real_ - totally legit, for all intents and purposes. If Keller succeeds, he will have the power to bring the entire economy to its knees. The only way to stop him is to find the chip."

"But won't Keller have made copies of the data on the chip by now?" Neal asked. Despite the cloud of dull pain floating over his head his curiosity was well and truly piqued.

"If it was possible to copy the chip, do you think we would be in this mess?" Jones rolled his eyes. "The microchip is encrypted. For better or for worse, no one is able to copy it. That means that it's harder to steal the thing and use it for your own evil purposes, but it also means that now that it _has_ beenstolen, we can't make our bills. We've lost the only version of the blueprints."

"Well, that's a shame."

"Caffrey – we need the chip back. Keller gave it to you, didn't he? He told you to hide it because you're the only one he trusts who's skilled enough to keep it safe. "

"Now why would he do a thing like that?" Neal asked quietly. He didn't like where this was going.

"I don't know, Caffrey! Keller is a criminal. He obviously doesn't go for the whole 'no honour amongst thieves' thing. He gave the chip to you. You _have to tell us where it is_. We can cut you some sort of deal, make things really good for you-"

"I don't have the chip. Honestly. I have no idea where it is." Neal's eyes were pleading. "I didn't even know that Keller stole something like that. I didn't think that he had the brains."

"Caffrey-"

"I don't have the chip, Jones!" Neal didn't mean to shout. It just happened. A strange look danced across Jones' face, flickering away before Neal could identify it. Then the agent sank back in his chair and folded his hands primly in his lap.

"Well ok then."

"Look, I didn't mean to raise my voice-"

"It's ok, Caffrey. We'll talk more about whether or not you have the chip later." Jones straightened his tie. "You want coffee?" This time, Neal accepted the offer. The two of them stood and went over to the bureau's sorry excuse for a kitchenette. "Shall I be mother?" Jones poured the coffee. He hadn't lied – the stuff was indeed horrible – but the dose of caffeine helped clear Neal's mind. Once both he and Jones had drunk their fill of the tar-black liquid (there was no way Neal was going to touch the "milk powder" that was on offer) they returned to Jones' desk.

"Now, Caffrey." Jones started. "Mr Hughes wanted me to send you on to a psychiatrist. It's nothing to be alarmed about; it's just that the bureau wants to see what's going on inside that head of yours, ok? Don't worry – you're in perfect mental health, I swear." Jones said hurriedly, seeing the look on Neal's face, "But we need you to see the doctor." Neal was shocked by the sudden change of topic. _Psychiatrist? What the hell?_

"Do I have a choice?" He asked, running his fingers through his hair.

"Not really… Ah, Dr Redford! Glad you can make it! This is Neal Caffrey, the one Agent Burke told you about." Neal spun in his chair to find a tall, bearded man standing behind him. He had a friendly, open face and grave eyes that hinted at a deeper intelligence. Neal didn't trust him one bit.

"Hello, Neal." Dr Redford held out a hand for him to shake. "If you'd like to follow me…"

Neal sat down on a beanbag opposite the rather sinister doctor. He couldn't help but think that the man was creepy in an illogical way – his eyes didn't match his smile, his mild manners didn't _quite_ go with his palpable self-confidence. Everything about the doctor gave off an unnatural vibe.

"Why am I here?" Neal demanded the second they were seated. "I've already told Jones that I don't have the microchip. Keller never gave it to me – I haven't the foggiest where it is." Dr Redford waved his hand in a placating gesture.

"No, no, Neal. We're not here to talk about that. Can I call you Neal, by the way?"

"Can I call you Eugene?" Neal shot back. Dr Eugene Redford looked startled.

"But how did you-" His eyes fell on the nametag that was peeking out of his trouser pocket. "Ah. Clever boy. Neal."

"Thank you. Eugene."

* * *

"Ah Christ." Peter sighed. He was standing in his office with Hughes, watching the scene with Neal and Dr Redford unfold on the CCTV. "Did you really think that Neal would go in for a session with a _psychiatrist_?" He asked his boss scathingly. "The two of them aren't going to get anywhere. They'll tear each other to pieces!"

"I know." Hughes sat down behind Peter's desk, his every movement weary. "But we have no choice. We all know Caffrey has the microchip. Dr Redford is our best bet for finding a way to make the kid talk."

"I don't like this." Peter growled. "Subjecting Neal to a psychiatrist… in the hope that he can reveal the best way for us to _manipulate_ Neal into telling us all his secrets – it just doesn't seem right." Hughes nodded his agreement, and placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"Peter. I know this doesn't sit well with you. But we have to find the microchip. We found out last week that Caffrey knows where it is. We must do everything in our power to make him reveal its location. I've worked with Redford for many years. He's good. Really good. He'll be able to tell us the best way to get Caffrey to talk; be it a long stint in prison to loosen his tongue, or light community service to make Caffrey trust the bureau."

"From what I know of Neal, it's going to take a lot more than that to make him relinquish his most precious of secrets." Peter remarked. Hughes didn't seem concerned.

"Everyone has a weak spot, Peter. Dr Redford will find Caffrey's. And when he does, we'll use it, manipulate it, and _do whatever it takes_ to make Caffrey talk."

* * *

"Ok, Neal. We're going to play a simple word association game. How does that sound?" Neal rolled his eyes at the prospect of yet another mind-numbing brain game.

"Yeah, whatever." He muttered. He had been alone with Dr Redford for nearly 15 minutes now and the doctor was really starting to grate on his nerves. One of his _particularly_ annoying idiosyncrasies was to start his every sentence with 'ok, Neal'. 

"Ok, Neal. The word association game is quite simple. I say a word, and you say whatever it is that pops into your head. Whatever the word makes you think of." Neal lifted his eyes heavenwards. _When was this going to end?_ Right now, he could honestly say that he would prefer prison to this perverse session with a psychiatrist. "I'll start." Cooed Dr Redford. " Egg."

"Chicken." Neal sighed.

"Farmer." Came the swift reply.

"Fisherman"

"Postman."

"Policeman."

"Crime."

Neal smiled briefly, amazed at how fast the pattern had gone from "egg" to "policeman." Then he leaned back on his beanbag and said the first thing that entered his head.

"Opportunity."

* * *

Peter chuckled softly to himself as he watched Neal play some sort of crazy word association game on the grainy CCTV feed. It was obvious that the kid was not enjoying himself one bit, and though Peter found himself having to fight the urge to run in there and yank Neal out, he couldn't help but see the funny side as well. He felt the same sort of devilish glee that parents must feel when their child gets what they deserve. Kid pushes a granny? Granny pushes back. Neal is moody in the car? Call in the sinister psychiatrist.

"Burke." Hughes, who had gone to refill his coffee cup, poked his head round the door. Tribunal's ready. OPR is in the conference room." Peter's laughter died in his throat. _Oh crap._

"Look, I can explain why I acted the way I did during Neal's arrest…"

"Good. Now tell it to the tribunal."

Peter took a deep breath and walked out of his office with his head held high. One hand strayed to straighten his tie, the other to tug on his left ear lobe. A nervous habit. He mentally ran through all his reasons for choosing to arrest Neal at Merrinote High School. The reasons made sense. They were logical. So despite the fact that the school was threatening to sue, Peter was reasonably confident that if he remembered his reasons, he would keep his job. That was the theory.

Peter drew in yet another deep breath and walked into the conference room with his lungs still ballooning like a bull frog. He was met by twelve senior executives all drinking in his appearance: the dishevelled suit, his lack of notes or writing equipment… Peter gulped. His eyes were instantly drawn to the face of Garrett Fowler. The OPR man stood behind the oak conference table with his pig faced assistant lurking behind him. There had been some bad blood between Peter and Fowler in the past, and as Peter was loathe to bring that up again, he quickly averted his gaze. Fowler just smiled. Hughes closed the doors behind them, squeezed Peter reassuringly on the shoulder, then took his place on the panel. The tribunal was ready to begin.

* * *

"Handcuffs."  
"Breakable."  
"Vase."

"Is it a Ming vase?"

"Hey, you can't say that! That's five words!" Neal and Dr Redford were still playing the word association game, and Neal was getting dangerously tired of it. He was about to screw being a polite little con-kid and tell the doctor exactly what he thought of his "five word" policy, but just before he opened his mouth, the doctor held up his hand. "Ok, Neal. I think that I've seen enough." He scribbled something on a yellow legal pad. He had been doing that all the time they had been together and Neal was seriously tempted to steal the thing. He tried to convince himself that the doctor wasn't worth the effort. "Ok, Neal. Thank you for playing the word association game with me. It has proved most useful. You're free to go." Neal could almost feel his eyes brighten at the words. The doctor clapped a hand over his mouth. "Sorry – I didn't think. I meant you're free to leave this office. Go back to Agent Jones." Neal huffed and gratefully pushed himself off the beanbag, leaving the strange Dr Redford to his scribblings.

* * *

"We are gathered here today to partake in a tribunal for Special Agent Peter Burke." Fowler said mournfully. "We will judge fairly and without prejudice. We will decide whether or not Agent Burke made the correct decision to arrest underage delinquent Neal Caffrey at his educational facility. To set the scene, the arrest of Mr Caffrey at his school has caused uproar. The school is threatening to press charges against the bureau for bringing live ammunition into an area where children reside. Agent Burke, how do you plead?"

Peter shook his head, amazed at the theatrics.

"I think that my team and I made the correct decision to arrest Neal at Merrinote High. We did this because we had no other choice – if we had struck at any other time, we are confident that Neal would have escaped."

"You got any, I don't know, _evidence_ to support this claim?" Fowler's voice, loud and distinctively disrespectful, rang out through the room. Peter stopped mid flow.

"Uh, no. Not exactly, but my team has arranged a file recounting all the times Neal Caffrey has escaped in the past. Once we had amassed this data, we knew that we needed to approach this arrest in a new way. Nabbing Neal at school was the only way to ensure a successful capture."

"Not really evidence, though, is it?" Fowler sniffed. Peter gave him the evils, but before he could shoot back some sort of reply, Hughes spoke up.

"Thank you Agent Burke. We have heard your reasons for arresting Caffrey at his school. As a panel, we will have to discuss whether or not you made the right call. Now please, tell us about the precautions you took to ensure no civilians were harmed during the arrest."

Peter nodded and straightened his tie once more. His palms were sweaty. This was the worst trouble he had been in in his professional career, and standing in front of a panel of his superiors, he couldn't help but feel like a naughty school boy summoned to the headteacher's office.

"Right. Precautions." Peter cleared his throat officiously. "We took numerous precautions to guarantee the safety of the children in the school at the time. We sounded the fire alarm once Neal was in custody and had the entire school evacuated."

"Why didn't you evacuate the school _before _you fired live ammunition at Caffrey?" Fowler asked pointedly. Peter stood up straighter, trying his best not to be intimidated by the OPR man.

"As I've said before, Agent Fowler, arresting Caffrey was a delicate operation. If we evacuated the school, Neal would have definitely gotten wind of our intentions and would have escaped."

"But you already warned him by – and I quote eye witness reports here – 'making a helicopter fly really, really close to the, like, geography room' that Caffrey was in at the time." Fowler was definitely enjoying grilling Peter for explanations. The glee was right there, dancing behind his eyes, visible to all.

"The incident with the helicopter flying close to the school was a tactic to scare Neal into submission. This strategy has been scientifically proven to be successful. And it worked – Neal didn't escape!" Peter tried to keep his frustration in check. He was being practically interrogated when he should have been congratulated! He had just captured a dangerous criminal, and his reward was to be treated like an idiot.

"But having a helicopter fly close to the school only served to cause chaos within!" Fowler pressed. Peter sighed wearily.

"I did what I had to do to protect my country. Neal Caffrey is a threat – the very fact that he has a microchip with the power to topple the global economy in his possession is surely enough to prove that! I arrested him and didn't injure any civilians." Peter wiped his brow, feeling oddly drained from the outburst. The panel facing him stared for a moment, then broke down into a series of rapid conversations. They were about to pass their judgement. In a few moments, Peter would know whether or not he had lost his job. He cringed mentally as, for the first time, he allowed himself to think about what would happen if he was no longer a special agent at the FBI. What it would mean for him. And what it would mean for Elizabeth. They would have to rely on Elizabeth's event planning business for income. She made a good profit – enough to support them and keep them off benefits – but nowhere near enough for them to sustain their way of life. They would have to sell the house, cut all the holidays, ditch the mint green Volvo, and, if things got really, _really _bad, put Satchmo up for adoption. There would be no money to put aside for retirement, no cash for a sneaky night out with his wife. No more lunches in cafes. All this flashed through Peter's mind in the space of a second. He gulped and instinctively stood up straighter. He had to keep his job. He _had_ to. For El's sake.

"Special Agent Burke." Fowler whispered something to the agents on his either side. They both shook their heads. Fowler smiled before standing to address Peter. The other members of the panel fanned out behind the OPR representative in a menacing semicircle. "We have made our decision."

* * *

**I've just realised that I haven't updated this story in over a month, so for that I apologise! I thought I'd make this chapter extra long to compensate. Hope you enjoyed it and I'd love to hear what you thought of it. :)**


	11. Chapter 11

"A caution!" Peter hissed into his phone. "The tribunal gave me a _caution!" _From the other side of the city, Elizabeth's gentle laugh reached him through his mobile.

"Hon, it's ok." She said comfortingly. Her voice rang out in the confines of the lift – a sonorous lullaby. Peter was in the cramped silver elevator alone, on the way to the White Collar Division. He had his wife on speaker phone.

"I've been at the company 12 years, El, and I've had nothing but an exemplary record. Then Neal sodding Caffrey shows up…" Peter slumped against the side of the lift with an exasperated sigh. He was literally fuming. A caution! He hadn't done anything wrong!

"Then Neal shows up and it all goes out the window." Elizabeth finished his sentence soothingly. "Yes, dear, I know." Peter huffed at her words.

"Actually, it was _Neal _who went out the window." He muttered, thinking of the chase at Merrinote: the shattered glass, the long fall and Neal left swearing in a recycling bin.

"I wouldn't worry about it, honey." It was almost as if El could sense his spiralling frustration. Her voice dropped an octave, becoming even more consoling. "It could have been a lot worse. You could have lost your job." As always, her words calmed him and Peter smiled just a little. But then the lift pinged and the smile vanished. He was nearly at his floor and the last thing he needed right now was to face the office with a caution hanging over his head.

"Peter, hon, I know you're upset and... angry, but really, it's just a caution." Peter nodded bitterly, momentarily forgetting that El wasn't actually in the room with him.  
"Yes." He said, after a pause. "I suppose you're right."

"Don't worry about it. One caution doesn't matter in the slightest. You're still my sexy, gorgeous, special agent husb-" The doors of the lift beeped stridently, causing Peter to jump with fright. They had reached his floor already? "And tonight, we'll f-" El was still talking, her voice, amplified through the speaker phone, rang out all around him. The doors slid open, revealing Jones standing in front of the lift. Peter swore, shouted a quick goodbye at El and hurriedly hung up before Jones could overhear anything more.

"Hey boss." Jones seemed oddly subdued. His hands twisted together, interlocking in complex knots before falling apart in an endless cycle. He was obviously nervous.

"Jones?" Peter asked. He stepped out of the lift, his embarrassment at whatever Jones had been unfortunate enough to overhear momentarily forgotten. "What's up?"

"Caffrey." Jones said simply. The single word was enough to make the blood freeze in Peter's veins. "He escaped."

* * *

_30 minutes earlier..._

Neal sat in Peter's office, twirling around on the agent's high-backed swivel chair and making paper cranes out of the yellow forms that sat on Peter's desk. He hoped that the forms weren't important. If there was one thing that Neal had learnt over the years, it was that the paper-crane process was irreversible. Once a crane, always a crane. Neal shook his head at the absurdity of his thoughts and studied his surroundings instead.

The White Collar Division was eerily silent. Peter had left half an hour ago to get a "real" cup of coffee after the stress of his tribunal, and Hughes had retreated to the confines of his own office. Jones sat behind his desk, typing a frantic report whilst Agent Wesley fribbled away at his tie absent-mindedly. His eyes stared vacantly into the distance, giving his face a ghostly appearance. Everyone else had gone home for the day. Neal spun around on the chair and gazed out the window. As the sky darkened, the city lit up like a Christmas tree, all yellow lights and buttery mist. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, the way he always did when he was thinking. Night was falling and he had no idea what was going to happen to him next. He couldn't exactly spend the night at the office, and the only option left was some sort of holding cell. At the thought, a wave of anger and frustration reared up within him. Anger at being arrested in the first place. Anger at Peter. Anger at the FBI. Neal smiled bitterly and turned 180 degrees until he was back, facing Peter's desk. Peter's computer stood with its standby screen rotating peacefully. A small box blinked into existence when Neal wiggled the mouse. _Password_?

Neal bit his lip as he stared at the word. The temptation to hack the computer was overwhelming. Peter's computer could contain anything, from files on his friends to information about his future to the crazy conspiracy theories Mozzie was always harping on about. Neal didn't hesitate for long. Shooting a furtive look over one shoulder, he hunkered down behind the desktop and allowed his fingers to dance over the keyboard. He got the password on the third try. _Shame on you, Peter._ Neal thought grimly, as adrenaline pulsed through his veins. _Next time, pick something a tad more secure than 'Satchmo123'._ Now that he was in the agent's computer, Neal felt the familiar high that came with doing something he wasn't supposed to. A slow smile crept onto his face. His spidery fingers tapped away, flying so fast over the keys his eyes were unable to follow them. Encryptions and firewalls vanished beneath the onslaught. Files popped up on the dashboard, then disappeared, one after the other. Neal scan read each and every one before dismissing it, his blue eyes flickering as he absorbed the new information. Hacking was a rush. Hacking a Fed's computer… well. That was an even bigger rush.

A file swam to the surface. Something about the officious layout made Neal pause in his efforts for a moment. He stopped searching to read the document in full.

It was about him.

Neal's heart jumped painfully in his chest. His fingers slowly fell away from the keyboard as he read the words on the page. The file was a series of reports about Datum815, the microchip that Keller had stolen. The microchip that contained the blueprints for the new hundred dollar bill. The microchip the feds were _desperate_ to find. Now, Neal saw why the FBI was so convinced that the chip was in his possession. The file contained DNA reports. Fingerprints found at the scene of the crime. Fingerprints that had been matched to _him._

Neal stopped reading. He was shocked by what he had just seen. No wonder the feds thought he had the microchip – the evidence they had amassed was damning. Neal felt sweat break out on his palms. The file had clearly stated that Datum815 had the power to topple the global economy if it fell into the wrong hands. And the feds thought that _he _had it! Neal's chest swelled as he breathed fast and shallow, in and out, in and out. He had told Jones that he didn't have the microchip. The denial pulsed through his veins even now. Why didn't they believe him? The world swam before his eyes. He felt dizzy. Hot. Too hot. The walls of the office were closing in on him, choking, suffocating. _He had to get out._ Neal shut down all the files and erased his presence from Peter's computer before staggering to his feet. He stumbled out of Peter's office and into the main area of the White Collar Division. He was about to enter Jones' line of vision when he stopped himself. He could barely walk in a straight line. The shock had obviously done a number on him, and he knew that escape would be impossible in his current state. Neal forced himself to take deep breaths and think. _He had to escape._ The mantra swirled through his mind on a loop. Escape looked easy, but despite the near empty office, he knew that he couldn't just waltz out. There were security guards downstairs and personnel that could be summoned at the push of a button. And Jones wasn't to be underestimated. Neal had seen the big guy in action and he was _not_ someone he wanted to tangle with. Neal backed up into Peter's office once more. He would give himself a few minutes to recover. And then he would make a plan.

* * *

Neal left Peter's office with a confident swagger and trotted up to Agent Wesley.

"Caffrey?" Wesley looked puzzled. "What are you doing? I thought Peter… uh, that is, Agent Burke, told you to stay in his office." Neal nodded reassuringly. He tried to radiate a sense of control and calm.

"Yes, that's right." He smiled - a blinding flash of white, white teeth. "But I need to go to the toilet. That is allowed, right?" Neal added an uncertain tremor to his voice and tried to look contrite. Wesley laughed jovially.

"Of course you can! But I'm afraid I'll have to escort you there. Wouldn't want you running off, now would we?" Neal chuckled along with the agent. Everything was going exactly to plan. "This way…" Wesley motioned something at Jones before striding off in the direction of the lift. Neal followed. He played up his limp as he walked, trying to give Wesley the impression that the ankle he had sprained during his arrest was giving him trouble. It wasn't a _complete_ lie. His foot was in plaster, and though he had ditched the crutches he still wasn't half as agile as he had been before the injury. That would hinder his escape for sure, but he knew that he could still succeed. He had a plan and, so far, it was working. Wesley noticed his limp and slowed the pace slightly. _Perfect._ Neal thought. He needed Wesley to underestimate him if this was going to work.

They got into the lift together and Wesley pressed the button for the floor below. Neal waited until the tall man had his back turned. Then he took a deep breath and launched himself at the agent. The pair of them went down in a tangle of limbs and curses. Neal managed to grab the agent's gun a few seconds into the tussle and waved it in Wesley's face. The man went deathly still.

"Caffrey – you wouldn't."

"I would." Neal cocked the gun. He had no intention of shooting Wesley, but he couldn't exactly tell him that. "I want you to listen very carefully, Mr Wesley. When the lift stops, I want you to get out. _Don't _sound the alarm. And please, _don't _tell anyone what has just happened." Wesley nodded dully. The shock was clear in his eyes. The lift doors opened silently and Wesley stepped out.

"Caffrey, you're making a huge mistake. If you escape, Peter will find you. And you know it." Neal shrugged and gestured for the agent to leave. Wesley turned tail and hurried off.

Neal knew that he was going to sound the alarm and he didn't care. His plan was simple. Wesley would alert everyone to the fact that he was escaping. The building would go into lockdown. The doors would be sealed, the lifts would close down and a group of guards would gather on the ground floor, ready to grab him. Meanwhile, Neal would be in the one place they would never suspect. The White Collar Division, headquarters of the very people in charge of hunting him down. He smiled to himself, pleased that he had made it this far, and pressed the button for the fifth floor. The lifts wouldn't have been shut down yet – he was fairly confident that he had enough time to make it back to White Collar. The lift hummed gently as it wound its way up to the floor above. By the time he got there, Neal hoped that the place would be empty. Jones would have run downstairs to help with his capture, and Hughes, if he was still in his office, would be easy enough to dodge. The more Neal thought about it, the more confident he was that his plan was going to work.

_Crunch._

The lift suddenly stopped with a jerky movement that threw Neal off his feet. He landed heavily on the carpeted floor and cursed vehemently. Wesley had more brains than Neal had given him credit for – he must have shut down the lifts the second he had had the chance. Neal was trapped. Stuck between floors. A sitting duck, ready to be picked off whenever they felt like powering up the lifts again. Neal could see it now: the lift's controls being overridden, the doors opening. Him inside the metal container, helpless. Jones would rush in. Peter would look disappointed. And Neal would go to prison. No more random psychiatrist visits for him. No offers of a deal if he revealed the location of a microchip he fervently claimed not to have.

Neal shook his head. He wasn't going to let that happen. Gritting his teeth, he clambered to his feet and stretched upwards. His reaching hands found the maintenance hatch set in the roof of the lift. He jumped into the air and slammed it hard with the flat of his palms. He landed awkwardly – making the lift wobble and sending waves of pain up through the cast on his ankle, but it was worth it. The hatch swung open. Neal pulled himself up and through before carefully placing the hatch back into position. He was in the lift shaft, an inky space coated in brick dust. The air smelt like oil and the only illumination came from the doors set in the wall above him. They were the doors that lead to White Collar: when the lift stopped in front of them, they would open automatically. Neal stood up. He was now on the roof of the lift he had been trapped in, and because he had been halfway between floors when the lift had stopped, he could just reach the doors that were above his head. His fingers searched the walls of the shaft and found the emergency override button. He pressed it and the doors glided open. Neal sighed in relief – amazed that that had worked. Brushing the dust off his shirt, Neal hauled himself up through the doors and entered the fifth floor lobby.

* * *

Jones was the first to see him. The burly agent climbed to his feet. He didn't look very surprised to see Neal crawling through a lift shaft with cobwebs glittering in his hair.

"Caffrey!" Jones called. Neal didn't answer. He kept walking forwards, heading towards Peter's office. "Where are you going?" Jones pressed. He started walking towards Neal, trying to corner him, trap him against a wall. Neal backed away. "Caffrey!" Jones shouted. From somewhere deep in the building, alarms were beginning to sound, loud and incessant. Neal broke into a run. Jones swore and pounded after him, forcing Neal to spin around and head back in the direction of Peter's office. "Neal!" Jones sounded desperate. Hughes was out of his office now, staring wide eyed as Neal sprinted past him. He jabbed at an alarm set in the wall beside him. Its peal joined the shrieks of the others.

"Jones – stop him!" Jones lunged forward, but Neal easily pranced out of his reach. He was on the stairs at this point, about to dive into Peter's office. Jones stopped dead. He knew what Neal was going to do.

"CAFFREY!" His voice was hoarse. "NO!" Neal looked back at the agent. Then he crossed the floor of Peter's office and, in the space of a heartbeat, was by the window. He pushed it open. And stepped out.

* * *

**Hey guys :) Now that everyone's back at school, I'm going to try to get back in the swing of things and update this story every Saturday. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed it! As always, I would love to hear your thoughts :D **


	12. Chapter 12

"He jumped out a window not 5 minutes ago." Jones told Peter solemnly. Peter swore.

"Are you serious? He jumped out a _window_? Again?" Jones nodded feverously. He seemed stunned.

"Yes, boss, but-"

"Well are you going to see if he's alright?" Peter asked, overruling his agent. He could feel his voice rising higher and higher as the panic dug its claws in. They were on the fifth floor of a skyscraper with a busy street below. Neal could be anywhere by now. Or he could be dead. _No_. Peter thought savagely. _Don't even go there._ "Jones?" He snapped. "Jones, are you going to DO something? Jones? Neal could be seriously hurt, he c-could-" Peter choked off the end of his sentence as the initial shock began to wear off. He grabbed Jones' arm and started dragging the younger agent towards the stairwell. Jones blinked.

"Boss! No, it's ok! Neal escaped earlier. He jumped out the window, then somehow managed to grab a flag pole to slow his fall. Then he landed on the roof of a truck. The kid's smart, Peter. He's not gonna do some Reichenbach style fall without some sort of a back-up plan! A local cop yanked him out the road before he could get run over. He's still with Caffrey now, waiting for the paramedics to arrive." Peter realised that he was still gripping Jones' arm hard enough to leave bruises. He slowly unfurled his fingers.

"Jones. Why the _hell_ didn't you tell me that first?" Jones must have picked up on the fact that Peter's voice was dangerously low. He took a wary step back.

"I tried-"

"Clinton. Promise me you'll never worry me like that again." Jones nodded despondently. Peter stared into his eyes for a few more seconds, then turned and sprinted down the stairs. He had to get to Neal. _He had to get to Neal._

* * *

Neal stared groggily up at evening sky. It pulsed with the afterglow of sunset and the actual glow from numerous streetlamps. The events of the past few minutes flashed through his head as he examined the night above. He had leapt out of Peter's window! He vividly remembered the chaotic sensation of falling, falling, falling… before his outstretched hands had grabbed onto a flag pole. He had known that it was under there – it had been his plan all along to snag it – but he had been pleasantly surprised to find that it had actually _worked_. He had latched onto the pole and hung there before… slipping. Falling. Landing on the roof of a moving truck with a bone shattering crunch and rolling off onto the petrol splattered tarmac far, far below. Strong hands had yanked him out of the path of oncoming traffic. The hands had carefully arranged him on the pavement, on his back, staring at the sky, before disappearing from sight. He dimly recognised the sounds of a 911 call being placed before blacking out.

"Neal! Neal! Jesus Christ, Neal, what the hell were you thinking?" A voice swept towards him. _Peter. _Neal sighed with relief. The movement sent needles of pain slicing through his chest. He tried to speak, to talk to Peter, to assure him that he was ok, but all that came out of his mouth was a raspy wheeze. "Shh Neal, don't talk." Peter's face swam into view above him. "Hold on just a few more moments. The ambulance is coming."

_Wait. Ambulance?_ Neal struggled to organise his thoughts. Why did he need an ambulance? Because… he blinked, trying to remember. _He had escaped_. From Peter. Why had he done that? Because he was angry at the FBI. Because the FBI thought that he had a microchip he claimed not to have. They had amassed some DNA evidence suggesting that he _did_ have it, but he still swore up and down that he didn't. The accusation had angered him. Angered him enough to _leap out a window_. Peter was still standing over his prone form, hovering like a worried parent. Neal gasped and tried to sit up. _He had to get away._

"Neal, hey, hey, hey it's ok!" Peter gently pushed him back down. "Try not to move, alright?" Neal ignored him. With a groan, he pushed himself up into a sitting position: legs outstretched, body propped up on his elbows. The pavement was a glacier that sent chills up through the thin fabric of his shirt. Peter looked concerned, but didn't try to move him again. "Neal-"

Whatever he was about to say was interrupted as the policeman who had yanked Neal out of the road hurried over to the pair of them.

"You Peter Burke?" Peter shot one last glance at Neal, then climbed to his feet to face the cop.

"Yes. What happened? I heard you saved Neal." The policeman nodded and guided Peter away so that they could talk in private. Neal was left alone on the pavement. That suited him just fine. Squeezing his eyes shut against the pain in his chest – his ribs had to be broken, or at the very least, badly bruised – he clenched his teeth and stood up. Nobody noticed as he staggered away from the policeman and Peter. Shooting one last, furtive look in their direction, Neal turned and melted into the crowd.

* * *

Elizabeth was driving home from work. Her head was filled to the brim with facts, figures and statistics from an utterly frenetic day at the office. She hummed softly to the empty car as she mentally ran through all that had occurred at work: the scathing meeting with bossy clients who wanted things _just right_ and the heated argument with a short sighted electrician. She sighed and slowed the car to stop at a red light. She was deep in the suburbs, and at 10 in the evening this sleepy part of the city was practically deserted. She was the only car on the road, the only person waiting at the junction. Elizabeth ground her teeth as she waited for the lights to change. What the hell was taking so long? She had to get home and make dinner for Peter – though knowing her husband, he would still be at the office despite the late hour. Sometimes Elizabeth thought that Peter cared more for Neal Caffrey (his three year long obsession) and the job than he did about her.

Elizabeth huffed and turned on the radio with a stocky finger. She was being ridiculous. Of course her husband loved her. He loved her more than anything else in the world, and she was stupid to resent him for working extra hours at the office when his job was to protect the country from harm. The light suddenly morphed from red into green and she gently nudged the accelerator, easing the car forwards. Peter's warm embrace seemed to call her and she pressed down harder, sending the speed dial swinging upwards.

She was doing 30mph when she saw him.

He was young, maybe 15 years old. His dark hair seemed almost black under the eerie glow of the street lights. His eyes glinted ice blue in the dark - two pinpricks of scalding electricity. But that wasn't what had caught her attention. The boy was running. Running faster than anybody had a right to do in a quiet, residential suburb. Running as if his very life depended on it. The boy sprinted towards her. He was moving awkwardly, bent double, his hands wrapped around his rib cage. He was obviously injured.

Elizabeth took this all in in the space of a second. The boy was fast: streaking like a comet down the length of the pavement. He was parallel with her car. Before she had time to react, the kid suddenly swerved violently and staggered into the road. Elizabeth screamed and slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The car hit the boy and he crumpled to the floor. She spun the wheel and forced the car into a screeching halt before throwing open the door and running to the fallen boy. _Oh God oh God oh God._

She reached the boy and fell to her knees beside him. She pressed her ear to his face and discovered to her extreme delight that he was still breathing. The boy cracked open his eyes and looked up at her, a dazed expression clouding his face. There was a graze on his forehead – bright red – as though someone had swiped a paintbrush against his skin. Only Elizabeth knew it wasn't paint. Her heart melted within her.

"Hey there, sweetie, are you ok?" When the boy didn't answer, Elizabeth carefully checked that he was ok – no broken bones, no injured spine. Miraculously, he seemed to be totally fine, apart from the graze on his head. She took a deep breath, mentally running through her options before coming to a decision. She gently guided him to his feet before helping him to the car. She opened the door and the kid fell onto the back seat with a grateful sigh.

* * *

Neal groaned and took in his bearings. He was in a strange car with a strange woman. He had a dim recollection of the car thwacking into him, but when he examined his limbs for injuries he found that he was fine apart from a ringing in his head. "Hey, sweetie, don't fall asleep, don't black out now, stay with me, ok sweetie?" The woman was talking to him, babbling on like a perpetually bubbling creek. Neal hadn't realised that his head was lolling against his chest until now. "What's your name, sweetie?"

"Neal." He slurred without hesitation. The woman smiled blankly - she seemed stunned.

"That's funny. My husband knows someone called Neal. I think he's about your age, actually." She frowned. "Small world." Neal nodded without really absorbing the information. After he had escaped from Peter and the policeman, he had wandered the streets of the city for a time, looking for a place to stay. Mozzie was out of town and after his arrest he had no contacts left he could trust. He had gradually entered the suburbs, avoiding all patrol cars and members of the public, until the effects of jumping out of a window had finally caught up on him and he had collapsed into the road. The car had hit him a glancing blow, which had caused him to fall over and whack his head on the tarmac.

A woman who smelt like flowers had scooped him up into the backseat of the car and had started gushing away about names and hospital.

Hospital.

Neal swore unsteadily. He couldn't go to hospital!

"No… hospital." He managed to gasp out. "No… police…" The woman shot him a worried glance through the mirror.

"Ok Neal, whatever you say, sweetie. Now stay awake for me, Neal. Tell me your favourite colour." Neal was dimly aware that she was talking to him, but he couldn't muster the energy to reply. He recognised the strategy from the one time he had watched Coronation Street – the way to stop someone from falling asleep when they had a head injury was to force them to engage in conversation. But it wasn't working. Neal could feel himself slipping.

"No… police…" He murmured one last time. Then the world was ripped out from under him and he tumbled into the black abyss.

* * *

Elizabeth was freaking out. She had a teenage boy on her sofa and an elderly man in her kitchen. The man was from next door. He was a doctor (thank God) and Elizabeth had pleaded with him to come round hers and check on the boy who called himself Neal. The lonely neighbour had happily complied – busily wrapping bandages around Neal's chest, checking the cast on his ankle and gulping down El's famous, too-strong tea. Elizabeth had watched over the proceedings like a hawk would a rabbit; she was desperate to know whether or not Neal would be ok. She couldn't believe that she had hit him with the car – though it had hardly been her fault. She had been doing the speed limit when he had suddenly wandered into the road. Elizabeth took deep, calming breaths and gazed down on Neal, the miracle boy. Now that she could see the extent of the boy's injuries, she was utterly amazed that he had been able to run so fast before collapsing. He shouldn't have been able to walk, let alone sprint as though his life depended on it.

"I think that he'll be ok now." The old man from next door appeared at her elbow. She tore her gaze away from Neal to look at him.

"Really? You're _sure_?" The man laughed and nodded his silver head.

"Yes, Mrs Burke, I'm sure. He took quite the knock. His ribs are badly bruised and he has a mild concussion, but now that I've bandaged his chest and checked his reflexes he'll be totally fine." Elizabeth sighed with relief.

"Thank you so much, Dr Watson." The elderly man grinned.

"Not at all, not at all! I'll be happy to help whenever you need it. But I must ask – why didn't you take the boy to hospital?" Elizabeth gazed down on the sleeping teenager. Neal was spread out on her sofa, chest bare and bandaged, looking serene beneath the yellow blush of her lounge lights. After she had stopped the car outside her house, Neal had leant against her as she helped him up the steps and through the front door. He had looked deep into her eyes and thanked her solemnly. She had known instinctively that the thanks had come from the bottom of his heart. He had shaken her hand and thanked her again before breaking into a pain laced smile, and Elizabeth had thought in that moment that she had never before met such a polite or passionate young man.

"He didn't want to." She said simply. The doctor smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes, and went to get his coat.

"Call me whenever you need me. That's an order." He said sternly. Elizabeth smiled and nodded her head.  
"I don't know how I can thank you enough-"

"It's no problem whatsoever, dear. Have a good night." The elderly doctor stepped into the hallway. He opened the front door to leave, then took a step back, surprised. Elizabeth hurried to see what was going on. Peter was standing on the porch with his keys raised to enter. He looked startled as the door was suddenly flung open, but quickly smiled and said hello to the neighbour, before stepping aside to allow the doctor to leave. Elizabeth shot one last glance over at Neal. The boy was awake now, watching her silently with large, blue eyes. The she turned to face her husband.

"Peter, there's something I need to tell you-" Peter stepped into the room and threw his coat in the vague direction of the cupboard. It landed neatly on a peg.

"Hey, hon." He leaned in and kissed her, his back to Neal and the lounge. El noticed that Neal had gone very still. "I've had the most horrendous day at work. Neal escaped and I have no idea where he is…" Peter trailed off. He seemed to notice, for the first time, that El wasn't smiling or asking him how he was. Slowly, he turned around. His eyes fell on Neal who was lying on the sofa, an almost apologetic smile dancing on his face. The kid looked tired, wan, as if he was resigned to his fate. Seeing him like that made El realise something that should have been obvious from the start. _Neal Caffrey._ Neal took a deep breath, then looked directly at her husband.

"Hey Peter."

* * *

**Hey guys, hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thanks for the reviews, they're really helpful. Would love to hear what you thought about this one :D **


	13. Chapter 13

Peter gasped like a dying fish and fumbled for the gun strapped to his chest. With shaking fingers he yanked the weapon out and brandished it at the teenager lying innocently on his sofa.

"Neal." His voice was terrible – low and mournful as the grave. At the sight of the gun, Neal froze and shrank back on the cushions. "I've spent the whole night searching for you - and the entire time I was out there, on the streets, in the office, _looking _for you, hunting you down like the law-breaking fugitive you are, you were _drinking tea in my lounge with my wife._" Neal tried to interrupt, but Peter shook his head savagely. "No. I'm talking now. How the hell did you find my house? What gave you the right to _mess with my family_?" Neal trembled at the harsh torrent of words and made to stand, but found that he couldn't. The pain in his ribs stopped him.

"Peter, please, you don't understand-" He started, desperate to explain – but Peter was having none of it. All the stress of the past few days was pouring out of him and now that he had started shouting, he found that he couldn't stop. He took a step forward, keeping the gun trained on Neal the entire time.  
"Shut up Neal! I don't believe this. I'm phoning Hughes. You stay the hell where you are on that sofa and don't you _dare_ move an inch-"

"Peter Burke!" Both Neal and Peter snapped their heads up at the shout. Identical, guilty looks welled up on their faces. In the heat of the moment, they had forgotten about Elizabeth.

"Yes, honey?" Peter asked, after a pregnant pause.  
"There will be no guns under my roof, Peter, do you understand?" Her tone was sharp enough to slice rock and halve diamonds. Peter gulped. All the colour drained out of his face and he slowly lowered his firearm, ashamed. He blinked and looked at Neal with a softer countenance, utterly abashed at his behaviour. He realised now that he had gone too far. Neal shivered and hugged his bandaged chest, eyes wide, hair ruffled.

"Peter, Elizabeth wasn't harbouring me; she was… taking care of me." He stuttered, before seeming to pause, take a breath and pull himself together. Peter watched as Neal took a second to mentally compose himself after the shock of the last few minutes. The kid's eyes brightened as he recovered. "I collapsed into the road and she nudged me with her car before stopping and helping me." Recovery complete, Neal's next sentence was smooth as polished glass. Peter marvelled at his ability to lie convincingly regardless of the situation – it was truly remarkable, though incredibly infuriating. He turned to look searchingly at his wife.

"Is this true? You bumped him with your car?" Elizabeth nodded curtly.

"It wasn't a bump, Peter, it was a whack. I hit him with my car – and what else was I supposed to do? Neal loudly expressed that he didn't want to go to hospital, so I took him here and had Dr. Watson look at him. What else could I have done, Peter?" Her voice was filled with pain - both aggressive and defensive at the same time. "He was my responsibility." Peter took deep breaths and tugged on his earlobe, his every move anxious. He looked at the fugitive in his living room, then glanced at El.

"You… hit… him with your… car?" He repeated slowly. The pair of them both nodded. Silence descended on the room like a cloud of noxious gas as they waited for Peter's verdict. Then –

"I'm gonna call Hughes." Feeling as if he had aged a thousand years, Peter turned and slouched off in the direction of the garden to place the call. There was no way he was going to let Neal listen in on the conversation. The kid was crafty – Peter did not for one _second _believe that he had just 'happened' to get hit by a car and end up at the Burke residence. What were the chances of that? No. This was some sort of master evil plan. The boy was playing some sort of angle, and Peter was damn well going to find out what it was.

* * *

Neal released a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding when Peter finally left the room. He couldn't believe how unlucky he was. Out of all the cars in all the city, why did he have to be hit by Elizabeth's? He cursed his rotten luck and his own stupidity with a bitterness that surprised him. He had escaped from one Burke only to run straight into the path of another. That was not cool – especially as Peter probably thought that this was all part of some grand scheme of his. It wasn't. It was at times like this when Neal really began to reflect upon the rubbish Mozzie spouted 24/7. His short, bespectacled friend was always banging on about destiny and the fates; maybe there was a speck of truth hidden in his mumblings after all.

He abandoned his deliberations when Elizabeth quietly padded over and sat down on the armchair opposite.

"You ok?" She asked softly. Neal was stunned. Now that she knew he really was, he fully expected her to turn him out onto the street. He had lied to her about his circumstances and neglected to mention that he was on the run from the FBI. Still, she had neglected to mention that her husband _was _FBI, but that was hardly something he could hold against her. Elizabeth Burke was one of the kindest people he had ever met and she was fully justified in kicking him out of her home. But here she was, asking if he was alright after the brief scare with the gun. _Not that it was really a scare, though. _Neal thought mildly. _It's not like Peter was ever going to shoot me._

"Yeah, I'm ok." He replied, avoiding her gaze. She leaned over and took his cold hand in her warm one.

"Look, Neal, I know that Peter is mad at you. But it's all going to be ok, I promise." His eyes flickered up to meet hers.

"How do you know that?"

"Because he's my husband. He talks about you all the time and although he may be angry now, there is no way that he is going to let anyone hurt you." Neal sighed, a great exhalation of breath accompanied by a look of abiding sadness. The heart-wrenching emotion was incongruous on his youthful features.

"He won't let anyone hurt me." Neal repeated dully. "But will he protect me from the law?" Elizabeth looked away. It was all the answer Neal needed.

* * *

Peter entered the room after a few minutes and walked straight up to his wife. He enveloped her in his arms and kissed her cheek consolingly.

"Are you ok, hon?" He asked, tone hushed. Elizabeth rubbed her forehead, as though trying to erase the worry lines that creased her skin.

"I'm fine."

"You hit a child with your car, El." Peter said gently. "But you have to remember, it _wasn't your fault._ Neal is fine now. He stumbled into the road. You didn't do anything wrong."

Elizabeth looked a little bewildered by the speech, but then her face melted into a relieved expression. Peter smiled. He hugged her again, then stepped away. His phone was clasped between his fingers; he glanced at nervously as he pulled on his shoes. "I've got to go to the office. Hughes needs to speak to me." His face crinkled with apology. Elizabeth sighed, but nodded and helped him into his coat.

"What should I do about…" Her voice dropped to a querulous whisper. "You know." She shot a glance back at the teenager lying on her sofa. "Neal?" Peter turned to study Neal as well. The boy was watching the pair of them discuss him with cold amusement flickering in his eyes.

"Keep him here until I get back. Under no circumstances do you allow him to leave. A team are on the way to help you keep an eye on him. They'll be here soon. When I get back we'll figure out what to do." Peter held his wife's eyes for a moment, and a shudder of silent understanding passed between them. "I'll be back before you know it, hon." He said finally. Then his long fingers palmed his keys and he paced out the room, out the door and into the night.

"Where's Peter going?" Neal asked, once the agent had been swallowed up by the slack-jawed, congested city.

"The office." Came the short reply.

* * *

The office was unusually busy when Peter arrived after a quick drive through deserted streets. Neal's escape and subsequent capture (if you could call being hit by a car 'capture') had stirred up the FBI like an overturned bee hive. There were people bustling around the room in a crazy assortment of casual clothes, suits, high heels, and, in the case of Hughes, slippers. The elderly man was waiting for Peter on the balcony, wearing flannel pyjamas and a dressing gown the colour of milk. Peter stifled a childish giggle at the ridiculous attire as he followed his boss into the conference room.

"Burke." Hughes said, arranging himself behind the monstrous table. "Talk. Now." Peter's urge to laugh dissipated at Hughes' tone. It was frigid – the older man was obviously _not_ happy to be drawn from his house at 11 o'clock at night.

"We found Neal." He said simply. Hughes sighed, exasperated.

"I had to abandon the latest episode of Downton Abbey half way through in order to be here right now." He growled the warning. "So tell me something I don't know."

"Well…" Peter started, wondering where to begin. "My wife hit Neal with her car. They both claim that it was an unfortunate coincidence, but I believe that Neal got hit on purpose. Whatever the reason, Neal ended up in my house and he's on my couch right now." Hughes looked startled.

"He's not trying to run?"

"No. Weird, huh?" Hughes shook his white head, drawing Peter's attention to the dried toothpaste on the front of his dressing gown. The milky residue made it look as if Hughes was wearing a white collar_._ Peter smiled at the irony, then steepled his fingers together, perplexed.

"I've ordered for a team to be sent down to your house." Hughes was saying. "They'll keep Caffrey there, regardless of his motives."  
"Good. I reckon El needs the support."

"Can Caffrey stay at yours tonight, if there's backup?" Hughes asked. The comment startled Peter. He thought about it for a moment.  
"Yeah, I guess. He's not exactly going to hurt us. Rob us blind, maybe." A cynical smile twisted his lips. "Why? Are there no holding cells available?" Hughes shook his head, clearly irritated.  
"No. It's an outrage. They're all full – I'm definitely going to file a complaint. But think about it Burke – this could really work to our advantage here." Peter stifled a cavernous yawn. It was late at night and the day's misadventures were beginning to catch up with him.

"Really? How so?"  
"I've gotten the results of Caffrey's psychiatrist test." Hughes said cryptically. "Dr Redford has come to the conclusion that Caffrey is more likely to tell us the location of the microchip Datum 815 if he is exposed to a _homely environment_." Peter gasped, hands flying to his mouth. He knew what his boss was thinking.

"No. No, Hughes. He is _not _going to stay in my house."

"Peter…" Hughes went for the placating tone. "You know more than anyone how important that microchip is. We need it back, and Caffrey has it in his possession. Redford told us the most efficient way to extract that vital information is to be nice to the kid: offer him protection, a bit of love, a bit of care, a family. If we expose him to a family environment than it is _very_ likely he will crack and reveal the location of the chip. It's part of his personality – he responds to love. We would be fools not to take this opportunity!"  
"So you're saying that if Neal stays with me, in my house, with my wife and dog, he will eventually grow to trust us to the point of telling us his most precious of secrets?" Peter's words were scathing. "It's ludicrous."  
"But it just might work." Hughes mused. "Peter, I've seen the way you act around the kid. And the way he acts around you. He will probably never admit it, but he trusts you already. If you treat him nicely, let him stay in your house instead of prison where he belongs, then in time he will tell you the location of the chip. That's what Dr Redford, _leading_ child psychiatrist, said." Peter bit his lip, indecision clouding his features.

"I don't like this. Neal will never tell us where he hid the chip, no matter how good we are to him. He'll keep his mouth shut and laugh at our attempts at glorified bribery. Or he'll escape!" Hughes pointed a chubby finger.

"Ah. That's where – what do the kids call it these days? – _technology_ steps in." The older man tapped something into his laptop and tilted the screen so that Peter could see.

"Tracking anklet. State of the art. Caffrey wears it the entire time he's in your home. He won't be able to leave a two mile radius." Peter stared at the image. The black anklet with the flashing green light looked sturdy enough. _It just might work… No._ Peter shook his head vigorously. This was a stupid plan.

"Hughes, Neal isn't my son. You're asking me to practically foster a criminal." Hughes cocked an eyebrow.

"I thought you said that you and Elizabeth _wanted_ to foster a teenager?"

"Ah." Peter was stumped.

"That's what I thought." Hughes leaned back in his chair. "Look, Burke – the way I see it? It's simple. All you have to do is treat Caffrey the same way you would treat a foster child and in time, he'll tell you his secrets. Then we'll grab the microchip, save the world, cart him off to prison and that'll be that." Peter creased his eyebrows together. The thought of fostering Neal filled him with a warm, tingly feeling, like a hot-air balloon expanding in his heart. But it also made him want to throw up his dinner. The stress, the pressure, the worry that came with parenthood… Would he and El be able to handle it?

"So let me get this straight." Peter said, looking Hughes directly in the eyes. "You want me to take Neal into my home?"

"Yes." Hughes nodded slowly.

"Treat him like a member of my own family?" Peter continued.  
"Yup."

"Raise him as a foster son, in the hope that in a few weeks or possibly months, he will trust us enough to reveal the location of his ultra-secret, ultra-powerful microchip?"

"You got it." Hughes swallowed a blossoming yawn.

"And then once he divulges this secret, we'll send him to prison?"

"That's pretty much the sum of it, Burke. Have you got a problem with that?"

"It's ridiculous. Ludicrous. Utterly bonkers! But… I _do _see your reasoning. It might… just work." Peter said, surprised to have reached this conclusion.

"Good." Hughes smiled. "I'm glad to hear that. It would be foolish to waste an opportunity like this one. We need the microchip, and by agreeing to do this, you are bringing us one step closer to our goal. Peter, you have the gratitude of the bureau. Don't think that this will go unrewarded." Peter smiled uneasily at the praise. "Will your wife mind?" Hughes asked, almost as an afterthought.

"No. She really wants to foster a teenager. She's also quite fond of Neal. Very… protective." Hughes waved a hand dismissively, as if to say _good, good, whatever._

"Caffrey must not know the real reason why he is staying with you, Peter." He warned. "It won't work otherwise. He won't trust you if he thinks you're trying to manipulate him."

"But… we _are _trying to manipulate him." Peter's conscience was starting to protest at the plan. He didn't want to harm Neal or betray his trust, even if the global economy depended on it. Hughes shook his head derisively.

"I know what we're doing isn't the most morally correct of all things, but we have no other choice, Peter. You're a good agent; I trust that you can spin some sort of lie to explain Neal's presence in your home without telling him the truth." He looked down, a clear gesture of dismissal. "Now I really have to get home and finish my programme. Things were just getting good in Downton." Hughes stood, shook Peter's hand, muttered instructions about where to pick up the tracking anklet and made promises to meet and brief tomorrow. Then he left the room, leaving Peter to brood.

* * *

Half an hour later. Peter parked his mint green Volvo outside his flat and sat there with the engine dead and the seat warmers still pleasantly heated. He had made his decision. He was going to lie to Neal and arrange for him to stay with him and El. The thought made him feel queasy. He knew it was wrong, but Hughes had a point – the global economy depended on him manipulating Neal.

Trying to quell his rising sense of unease, Peter looked around. Outside his house were El's Fiat, Jones' SUV and the notorious Municipal Utilities van that every criminal in the city now associated with the FBI. Peter took a deep breath and straightened his tie. The tracking anklet Hughes had ordered from the Marshals rested on the passenger seat beside him. He was going to have to explain everything to El. Put the anklet on Neal. And deliver the lie he had concocted. Peter forced himself to stay calm. One hand drifted up to tug on his earlobe. Then he opened the door and marched up to his house.

Neal was sitting on Peter's sofa, squished between Jones and Elizabeth. The three of them were watching a re-run of last year's Apprentice and were quite literally crying with laughter. On the screen, a grouchy, self-opinionated contestant flicked back her hair and snapped something at Lord Sugar, who promptly leaned forward and launched into an angry speech. Jones' chuckle was one of the loudest in the room.

"Oh – oh my God – that'll teach her to be rude to Karen!" Neal and Elizabeth laughed along with him, El wiping tears from her eyes and Neal grinning bright enough to light up the entire room. His hands were cuffed together, but he was still happy.

Peter stepped into the lounge, allowing the front door to slam behind him. The noise made the three of them jump guiltily.

"Peter." El was still laughing. "Hey, hon. Didn't see you there! Would you like to watch the Apprentice with us? It's really good-"

"I can see that." Peter deadpanned. He gestured for El to join him in the kitchen. His wife made a face at Jones and squeezed Neal's shoulders reassuringly before standing up to follow her husband.

"Peter, hon, what's wrong?" She wrapped her arms around his muscular frame once the two of them were alone. "Are you ok?" Peter swallowed the rising lump in his throat. Neal's arrest, the tribunal, the caution… then Neal's escape, coming home to find him in his living room, and Hughes' startling plan – it was all starting to take a toll on him. For the first time, tears pricked his eyes. Elizabeth noticed immediately. "Peter." They stood hand in hand for a few moments, her radiating support and comfort, him trying to pluck up the courage to explain. After several minutes, he finally told her what was wrong. He told her about Hughes' idea and the microchip Datum 815. He told her about how Neal had the chip in his possession, but repeatedly claimed that he didn't. He told her about the fostering. And he told her about the plan to betray the young teenager once the microchip was recovered. When he had finished, El looked up at him silently. He knew that she hated the thought of lying to Neal. He knew that because he hated it too.

"Honey." She murmured. "I did say I would love to foster a teenager. But you can't lie to him. You have to do what is right."

* * *

Neal lay on the sofa, his hands in chains, his limbs aching from the escape and the unfortunate encounter with a car. He was alone in the living room. Jones had retreated to the van outside, still chuckling, with the promise that he would be keeping an eye on the residence, and Peter and Elizabeth were discussing something in earnest on the other side of the wall. He knew that that 'something' was him. Peter had been at the office for two hours, and now he was no doubt filling his wife in on all that had occurred. Anger swelled up within his soul and Neal ran his fingers through his hair wearily. Peter and the feds were obsessed with the microchip that Keller stole. They thought that the chip was in his possession because they found some DNA evidence at the scene of the crime, but he consistently claimed that he was innocent. Despite his protests, the FBI were probably plotting a way to get him to reveal the location. That's what Peter and El were discussing now. He knew it as surely as he knew that Peter wasn't going to shoot him earlier.

Minutes passed. Neal pawed at the frayed edges of the top Agent Wesley had given him, admiring the way the slogan was written in silver so that the words _Every fairytale needs a good, old-fashioned villain_ shimmered when they caught the light. The minutes stretched into 10 until finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Peter walked into the room followed by a smiling Elizabeth. They both looked haggard and worn under the yellow lighting. Peter went and sat at the end of the sofa Neal was sprawled upon, and asked calmly for Neal to raise his leg. Puzzled, Neal complied. He lifted his leg so that it balanced on the arm-rest and watched, eyes wide, as Peter fixed a black plastic circle around his uninjured ankle. _A tracking anklet._ Neal had heard about them before. This _had_ to be a good thing. If they were tracking his movements, that meant that they weren't going to send him to prison any time soon. For some reason, they wanted him free. Neal knew that that reason was the microchip. It made total sense. They were going to offer him some sort of deal in exchange for the location of the microchip – hence the tracking anklet.

Once the anklet was locked into place, Peter stood and linked hands with Elizabeth. They both turned to Neal.

"There's no holding cells available, so you're going to stay here tonight." Peter said solemnly. Elizabeth smiled warmly and shot a meaningful glance at her husband. Then she announced,

"I'll go get you some supper," and disappeared back into the kitchen. Neal and Peter were left alone: a gangly teenage criminal and a stocky federal agent. The silence was pained. Peter tried to go for a smile, but the expression fell flat – more of a grimace than a grin. "Neal…" He took a breath. "I…" He seemed to be struggling with something inside. When the words came, they came haltingly, like a stream blocked by leaves. "Hughes – he doesn't want me to tell you. But I don't…want to lie to you." Neal waited quietly, not wanting to rush the older man who cared so much for him. "You're going to be staying with us for a few months. As our foster son. Hughes reckons that if we do that, you'll eventually tell us the location of the microchip." Neal accepted the statement calmly. He wasn't surprised. And the deal was definitely slanted in his favour. A foster home and no prison in exchange for one piece of information he couldn't give? It was perfect. "Do…" Peter swallowed. "_Do_ you have the microchip?"

Neal looked Peter straight in the eye, blue connecting with grey, a gentle explosion of watercolour paint.

"No, Peter. No." His voice was perfectly steady. His hands were perfectly still. "I swear to you Peter, I don't have the microchip." Peter smiled, patted Neal on the shoulder, and left to help El with the soup. Neal was left alone in the dark, the unaccustomed weight of the tracking anklet burning cold against his skin. _I don't have the microchip. _

It was the seventh time he had told that lie.

* * *

**Hey people :) Sorry I didn't update last Saturday, my life was slightly hectic, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Would love to hear your comments! :D **


	14. Chapter 14

A riot of birdsong awoke Peter from the cloudy world of sleep. He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes and automatically reaching for his phone. The grainy display proclaimed that it was half past seven in the morning; the lemony sunlight streaming through gauze curtains confirmed that this was true. Peter sighed contentedly and sank back on his pillows. _Monday morning._ Unlike most people in the country, the prospect didn't actually fill him with dread. Peter Burke loved his job. He smiled to himself as he sketched out his day in his mind. In about an hour, he would sweep into the office, espresso in one hand and files in the other. Diana would bring him up to speed on the weekend's events and Jones would natter away about the latest lead he had discovered. But before the office there would be the relaxed breakfast with El, the morning papers and the crunchy nut cornflakes. It was all ahead of him. A slow smile brightened his features as he planned his morning. He would go down and make El some coffee. Maybe they would shake things up a bit and go out for lunch later, really seize the day… Peter paused in his musings. There was something wrong. Something that he was overlooking.

Neal.

Peter swore and threw off the covers. Neal was downstairs on the sofa! The teenager was staying with them as part of a foster program that doubled as a manipulative scheme designed to extract information. Peter had told the kid as much last night. Last night when Neal had lied to his face and swore that he didn't have the microchip. Only they all knew that he did. Keller and Neal had broken into the secure facility, stolen the thing, and hidden it somewhere obscure. It was his job to find it. Grumbling incoherently to himself, Peter pushed himself out of bed (leaving his sleeping wife cocooned like a caterpillar in the all-encompassing duvet). He stuffed his feet into slippers and shuffled downstairs.

En route to the kitchen, Peter had to pass the living room. The _last _thing he wanted first thing in the morning was to spark up a discussion with a grouchy teenager, so he prayed that Neal was still asleep. He wasn't. Peter cursed when the kid looked up from where he lay curled under a mountain of blankets and grinned broadly.

"Morning Peter."  
"M'ning." Peter grunted. All his cheerful energy had dissipated since he had been reminded of his responsibilities, and he had relapsed into a groggy, unresponsive mood. Neal was slightly more alert. He sat propped up on the sofa wearing socks decorated with miniature policemen. He wore nothing except grey pyjama bottoms – his bare chest looked pale under the layers of bandages that enswathed his bruised ribs. He had balanced his injured ankle precariously on a stack of cushions, seemingly unconcerned at the way the pile was tottering, and he had his hair fluffed straight upwards. From somewhere under the mound of quilts, the tracking anklet glowed green. Neal had a bowl of dry cheerios resting on his torso and a mug of tea on the floor beside him. The TV was on, a flickering light that gave the room a cosy, safe atmosphere. Peter rolled his eyes. The kid looked like the lord of the freaking manor.

"You made yourself at home." He remarked. Neal looked slightly hurt.  
"Sorry, Peter – I, I should have asked. Elizabeth told me to help myself to the kitchen and the telly, so I did." He sounded genuinely apologetic. Peter didn't buy it for one second.

"What you watching?" He asked, as the silence brushed against the realm of awkward.

"Lost." Neal smiled, as if amused to be caught watching a programme almost as old as he was. "I was watching it on Netflix before…" He trailed off. Peter knew that he meant _before I was arrested. _"Before… I came here." Neal seemed anxious to change the subject. "I noticed you had series 3 on DVD." Peter turned to look at the screen. It showed an obese man with long curly hair staggering through a jungle, flies buzzing around his head, a chocolate bar clasped in one meaty fist.

"No way." Peter squinted closer. He had watched Lost avidly with El when it had been live on TV years ago, and seeing it now brought long forgotten memories swimming to the surface. "I remember this bit! The monster is going to pop out any second now." They both fell silent, watching the show together. Nothing happened for the briefest of moments. Peter contemplated that this was actually quite nice. Watching TV with a teenager. Exploring their common interests. This was what being a foster parent was all about. He wondered if he would ever get close enough to Neal to consider him a member of his own family. At the rate Neal was lying and holding back his numerous secrets, probably not.

"RRROOOOOAAAARRRR!" Right on cue, the monster leapt of the greenery and the man on the screen screamed and tripped over a log. Neal and Peter both jumped, then turned to face each other, laughing. _Who knows. _Peter thought. _Maybe this fostering could work after all. Maybe, one day, Neal will trust me._

"I'm gonna get some coffee." He said aloud, once they had recovered from the brief scare. "You want some?" Neal nodded to the cup of tea next to him.

"No thanks. You need any help?"

"Nah." He pottered off to make the drinks, leaving Neal to his programme.

* * *

Once Peter was out of the room, Neal closed his eyes. All this lying was exhausting. He pulled his phone out from a under a pillow and thumbed his way onto snapchat. Part of the terms and conditions that came with the tracking anklet said that he wasn't allowed internet access unless it was for educational purposes, but there was absolutely no _way_ he was going to follow that rule. Neal had easily hacked his way through the restrictions surrounding apps like Snapchat, Skype and Facebook within seconds of regaining his phone, and had set up a secure communications network between him and Mozzie last night before drifting off to sleep.

_Hey._ His slender fingers flew across the screen, tapping a gentle rhythm. _Moz?_ There was moment of silence, then his phone vibrated stridently as Mozzie replied.

_Neal! Gods above, it is good to hear your voice. Or, more accurately, read your message. _Neal smiled and hurriedly typed his reply. Peter was nearly finished in the kitchen and the last thing he needed right now was to get his phone confiscated. He arranged a meeting with Mozzie and slid the phone beneath the pillows just as Peter rounded the corner, two cups of steaming coffee gripped in his hands. The pair of them exchanged nods as Peter shuffled past and started the slow ascent up the stairs.

Peter's feet gradually disappeared from sight and Neal sighed wearily. This fostering – if you could call it that – was going to be a nightmare. He was still weak from his injuries and the stress of being arrested in the first place, and he wasn't sure if he had the energy to maintain the web of deception that had ensnared his mind for so long. The truth was… he had the microchip. He had had it for years, ever since he and Mozzie had broken into the secure federal facility and stolen the famed Datum 815. That was lie number one. Contrary to what Peter and the feds thought, Keller had _never_ actually been involved in stealing the microchip. Neal doubted that the lumbering oaf even knew it existed. The plan he and Mozzie had concocted was simple – steal the microchip, make billions of dollars and frame Keller in the process.

But the plan had gone amiss. Somehow, the FBI had realised that Nealhad been at the scene of the crime as well as "Keller" (though the DNA that supposedly belonged to Keller had actually been swiped off the crook's beer glass by Mozzie and artfully planted). Placing Neal at the crime scene had set Peter into believing that Neal had the microchip. Which had led to Neal denying it profusely in a bid to save his neck as well as Mozzie's. Which had led to a visit from a sinister psychiatrist, which had, in turn, led to this ridiculous foster programme.

Neal rubbed his temples. A headache threatened to drown his thoughts in hot throbs. He hated lying to Peter. He hated having to claim that he didn't have the microchip when _everyone _knew that he did. If he told himself the blunt and honest truth, if he looked deep inside himself to reveal his most innermost thoughts - he actually wanted nothing more than to forego the lies and return the microchip into the possession of the FBI. It would make Peter happy.

Neal knew that Peter's job was on thin ice at the moment, and it was all his fault. Last night, Peter had received a call from Hughes at White Collar. Apparently OPR had been in touch. They had heard about Neal's escape and the foster programme, and had set a worrying time scale. If in 6 months Peter hadn't reclaimed the chip, he would lose his job. Simple as that. Relinquishing the microchip would ensure the financial security of Peter and Elizabeth, the two people who cared about him despite his flaws. But… there were just too many other factors for him to do what was right.

Firstly there was Mozzie. If he gave up the chip, Mozzie would be incarcerated for sure, as well as losing his source of income. Mozzie had been using the microchip to make money in small amounts for years. He couldn't betray his friend like that. And then there were… personal reasons. The microchip was hidden in a secure vault at a secret location somewhere in the country. It was hidden with the rest of Neal's treasures: his stolen paintings, his forgeries, his stacks of money and his priceless jewels. All the riches of a lifetime. The work of his entire career. To give up the chip would be to lose it all. Not only that, he would lose the Burkes. Though lying was tedious and he knew that Peter was a long way off from ever trusting him, Neal actually quite enjoyed the foster program. So far he had been cared for and fed, kept warm and safe, out of prison. Could he really lose all of that, all that he had worked for, for the sake of doing the right thing? The question burned inside him. He didn't know how to answer it.

* * *

Peter slouched into the bedroom, setting the cups of coffee on top of a threadbare copy of _A Game of Thrones_ and snuggling back into bed. He was content to just lie there, in those precious moments before he had to don his suit and hit the office, and think of Neal. What was he possibly going to do now that there was a teenager in his life? One of the numerous questions swirling through his mind was how on earth he was going to finance it. The bureau would provide a monthly allowance for the upkeep of Neal, but he suspected that that money would equal the amount of green needed to care for Neal in prison. That would be enough to cover all the bills and food for him, El, and Neal, but Peter knew that the kid would need all sorts of added extras. School books, pens, pencils, clothes. Not to mention the stuff needed for Neal's bedroom. He would be staying in the guest room, and somehow Peter didn't think that the teenager would be overjoyed to have room painted pink and cream with flower fairies adorning the walls. They hadn't had the time to redecorate the room since they had bought the house a few years back, and the guest bedroom was still kitted out to cater the visual needs of a three year old girl. Peter laughed at the thought. Knowing Neal, the kid wouldn't even mind the garish décor. He was a conman, and if there was one thing that conmen were good at it was adapting to their surroundings. If Neal could escape from his school using a packet of tic tacs and a fedora, then he could definitely cope with a flower themed bedroom. Neal Caffrey – chameleon extraordinaire. Chuckling softly to himself, Peter rolled out of bed and jumped in the shower. It was time to face the office.

* * *

It was eleven thirty in the morning. Peter was at work, which left Elizabeth and Neal alone to entertain themselves at home. Neal swung his legs off the sofa (not liking the unfamiliar weight of the tracking anklet against his skin) and hobbled to the kitchen where he helped El with a late breakfast. Once they had eaten, Neal was shown to his room.

"I'm sorry about the decorations." El smiled as she watched Neal examine his new bedroom with interest. "I guess we could paint over the ballerinas and fairies-"

"No, it's alright." Neal grinned, eyes bright and earnest. "I don't want to hassle you, Elizabeth. The room is wonderful. Thank you so much for having me here." For once, the words weren't said for the purpose of conning his way into people's good books. He delivered them with genuine feeling, and was rewarded by El's look of warm appreciation.

"You're very welcome, Neal." She glanced around the room, as if noting how bare it was. Just a bed and an empty wardrobe. Boxes piled high with some of Neal's possessions from his apartment at June's littered the floor. Jones had brought them over on Sunday (after searching through them with painstaking detail). Wordlessly, Elizabeth and Neal started to unpack. It was a strange hour they spent together. Elizabeth, though kind and surprisingly empathic, seemed quiet and withdrawn, almost to the point of sullen. Neal supposed that in the cold light of day, she was struggling to come to terms with the fact that the boy she had hit with her car two nights ago would now be living in her house for six months. She was a foster mother to both a stranger and a criminal, and he guessed that that would take some getting used to. _He _was still getting used to it. It was a Monday morning, but Neal wasn't at school. That in itself wasn't unusual – his illegal antics often gave him cause to miss lessons – but whenever he skipped school he would always be skipping it with Mozzie. The fact that he was with the Elizabeth Burke instead of his friend was an unsettling sensation. Neal reassured himself with the reminder that he would be seeing Mozzie that evening.

After several failed attempts at conversation, Neal finally got the ball rolling by asking El about Satchmo. _That _got the words flowing like ink from a fountain pen, and the time spent unpacking suddenly whipped by as El summoned her faithful dog and demonstrated to Neal all the tricks he could perform. Laughing so hard it made his weakened ribs burn like acid, Neal gasped for breath as he helped El make up his bed with fresh linens. Stuffing his arms inside the covers and grabbing the quilt so that it smothered his body like a huge white tent made Neal feel seven years old again. He shot El a dazzling grin and together, they gathered up the quilt and threw it onto the bed. Finished.

* * *

That night, Neal slept in his new room. The light was on in the landing outside his door, and the soft glow seeped through into his pink walled bedroom irritatingly. Neal knew that Peter and Elizabeth didn't usually sleep with the outside light on. They had put it on for his benefit, should he be scared or confused or lost in the middle of the night. Though he appreciated the effort, sitting there in the dark with rays of light stabbing into his eyes was not his idea of fun. Groaning, Neal checked the time. It was one in the morning. Mozzie would be here any second now…

Knock. Knock. Knock. Silence… Knock.

Neal smiled and rolled out of bed, hating the way the tracking anklet caught the blankets when he did so. Though he had been initially glad to see the tracker, now that it was a part of his life he detested the plastic monstrosity with a passion. He couldn't go ten minutes without thinking of a way to get rid of it. _Maybe Mozzie would know how to crack the lock on the bloody thing. _

Neal edged over to door, avoiding the creaky floorboards, and slowly teased the handle open. Like a shadow in the oily night, he slipped out of the room and into the hallway. His pyjamas and socked feet were silent in the hush of the house. Creeping forward, Neal tiptoed his way past the door to Peter's room and hit the stairs without incident. Mozzie was in the kitchen. The knock was their signal – it meant that his short friend had found a way through the backdoor and was successfully inside the house. As per their arrangement. Smiling, Neal took the stairs one at a time. On the last one, his badly sprained ankle betrayed him and he lost his balance. One hand shot out to steady himself against the bannister. The stair creaked in deafening protest. Loud enough to wake the dead. Neal froze, heart pounding. If Peter woke up…

Silence descended. Neal held his breath, waiting, ears pricked, eyes strained. _One Mississippi, two Mississippi_…His instincts kicked in, adrenaline flooding his veins, _fight or flight _–

Nothing happened.

Sighing with relief at the close call, Neal padded downstairs and into the kitchen. Mozzie sat at the oak table with his feet propped up on the surface, face obscured by shadow. Grinning, Neal sidled over to him and sat next to his friend behind the kitchen table.

* * *

Peter sat bolt upright in bed. Details trickled into his mind like ants on a march. It was one in the morning. The house was silent. The neighbourhood was still. But… something had woken him up from his slumber. Breathing heavily, Peter blinked away the fogs of sleep and tried to remember. _Knocking. _He had heard _knocking_. Puzzled, Peter sat, shrouded in the quiet, listening intently. Nothing happened for a few minutes. He slowly sank back into bed and began to relax. He had probably imagined the sound. Nothing was amiss. Neal and his wife were fine…

A shrill creak shredded the air. A creak like floorboards shifting under the weight of a person. _An assassin? A burglar? An OPR representative?!_ Peter swore under his breath as the plethora of possibilities ran through his mind. He reached for the gun that he kept by his bedside. The sound had come from downstairs. Neal could be in trouble. Without hesitation, Peter ripped off the covers and sprinted out the door and onto the landing. Neal's door was open. _No. This was bad. This was really, really bad. _Peter bounded down the stairs, taking them two at a time. His slippered feet skidded on the wooden floor as he rounded the corner and burst, panting, into the kitchen. He stopped dead in his tracks.

Peter Burke was dumbfounded by what he saw.

* * *

**Hey everyone :) I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I really appreciate all your comments and I would love to hear your thoughts on this one :D**


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